


Birthright 03 - The Lady of the Lake

by Soledad



Series: Birthright [3]
Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Nietzscheans Can Be Sneaky, Not All Mudfoots Are Cowards, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7883635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate version of the 1st season episode "Music of a Distant Drum", with a different outcome.<br/>Dedicated to the members of the Memory Alpha Yahoo Group. Without their support I’d never have been able to write this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeframe:** roughly around and during the 1st season episode _Music of a Distant Drum_.

**FOREWORD**

Please read it, even if you find this sort of thing boring. It’ll save us future complications. Thank you.

This is the third instalment of my _Andromeda_ AU-series “Birthright”. Reading the first two would help enormously to understand the background. But for those who don’t want to do so (your loss, folks) here is a short summary.

 **Birthright 1 – The Assignment** takes place on Sinti IV entirely, shortly after the 1st Season episode _To Loose the Fateful Lightning_. It shows the Perseid reaction to the freeing of the _Andromeda_ and the destruction of the Dyhedra System, and how Rannveig got his fateful assignment: to find the _All Systems University_ records.

 **Birthright 2 – The Gathering** shifts the focus to Tyr. It starts after the episode _Angel Dark, Demon Bright_ and ends after _The Mathematics of Tears_. In this story, Tyr reconciles with Freya (who moves in with him aboard the _Andromeda_ ), finds a handful survivors of Völsung Pride on the planet Haukin Vora, allies himself with Guderian and the Sabra Pride branch on the Centauris A colony and marries the daughter of that Sabran Pride Alpha. He also marries two of the remaining fertile females of Völsung Pride and mates with the third one. So, at the beginning of this story, he has four wives: Freya (Orca Pride), Mikaelan (Sabra Pride), Derdriu and Finnabair (both Völsung Pride), but only Freya lives with him. He has sired two more children, those of Ayeshwariam (the third Völsung woman) and Abigail El-Hakim, Mikaelan’s sister, the chief assassin of the Sabra on Centauris A.

We also learn in “Birthright 2” that the Sabra on Centauris A have repeatedly raided the abandoned High Guard station GS92916. With the data they’ve collected there and the derelict High Guard ships they’ve picked up during the last two centuries, they’ve built a small but impressive fleet for themselves. The sons of Pride Alpha Ezekial El-Hakim, and his First Daughter Abigail, hold all key positions, while his other daughters (like Guderian’s First Wife, Deborah), are married off to various allies. Marrying into this cadet branch makes Tyr part of an already powerful alliance.

Tyr has also taken in a pair of Völsung twins, who’d lived as outcasts because – as a result of a genetic experiment gone horribly wrong – they are both damaged (read: incapable of breeding). They are both highly skilled warriors, bound to Tyr by the lifelong Omega oath.

But the most important fact is, that – with the help of the Perseids who had their own designs on the ship but lost against him – Tyr managed to get his hands on the _Pax Magellanic_. They succeeded in erasing the core AI and (with the help of cleverly placed explosions) trick Dylan  & Co into believing that the ship was indeed destroyed. In fact, however, it was hidden in the asteroid field until Abigail El-Hakim could get to it and tow it to Centauris A, where they could start working on reprogramming the AI and replacing the slipstream drive.

So much about background, and now on with the actual story!


	2. Prologue - Plans, Plots & Considerations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Prologue takes place shortly before the first season episode _Music of a Distant Drum_ and serves the purpose to introduce the reader to the settings. Some previous events are different from canon, as you’ll see.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 _"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!" –think some:  
Others–"How blest the Paradise to come!"  
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;  
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum! _

_From Omar Khayyam "Rubaiyat"_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **PROLOGUE: PLANS, PLOTS AND CONSIDERATIONS**

Captain Dylan Hunt, esteemed commander of the last still more or less functioning High Guard warship, the _Andromeda Ascendant_ , and self-proclaimed saviour of a post-Commonwealth era utterly fallen from civilization, was _not_ a happy man. His illusion of recreating his lost paradise while the rustic members of his rag-tag skeleton crew would follow his galactic vision with open-mouthed, doe-eyed awe, turned out to be just that – an illusion.

Granted, the Sinti Council of Perseids _had_ agreed to sign his New Commonwealth Chart eagerly enough. But in exchange they had demanded to have a presence aboard the _Andromeda_ , the ‘travelling embassy of the New Commonwealth’, as they called the ship. They had sent Technical Director Höhne and his assistant, a young field researcher named Rekeeb. And while Dylan liked Perseids well enough, the perpetual enthusiasm and excited technological chatter of those two really started to get on his nerves. As if Harper alone weren’t bad enough.

Beka was even more allergic to them, and not only did she avoid them like the plague but also blamed Dylan for their presence. Which was an idiotic accusation, of course, but Beka wasn’t always perceptive to logical arguments – to put it mildly. The only person who genuinely liked the Perseids was Harper – but Harper would enjoy anyone’s company who shared his interests, no matter how annoying they were. Besides, the young man, whiz-kid as he might be, could be highly annoying himself at times, making Dylan have nostalgic thoughts at his chief engineer of old.

The second world to sign the Chart, the Castalian Republic, had made the same demand as the Perseids. They had delegated a water-breather ambassador to the _Andromeda_ , which had resulted in the necessity of turning one of the storage areas near Hydroponics into a huge aquarium, so that the ambassador wouldn’t need to spend her entire time in a special suit. Harper had had his field day constructing the thing, of course, but it didn’t change the fact that aquarium building required a lot of his valuable time that could have been spent on more important projects. Like updating internal security. Or the armoury. That sort of stuff.

Then there were the Than. The Hegemony was still debating the pros and contras of joining the New Commonwealth, but that had not kept them from planting a small ‘hive’ – actually a mating group, for this was how Than worked the best – aboard the _Andromeda_. The hive contained of four Amber Than workers, three Emerald Than warriors, a Ruby Than pilot, a Sapphire Than scientist and an annoyingly self-important Diamond Than as the leader of their group.

Personally, Dylan had nothing against Than. He was used to serve with them, and the bugs were the best slipstream pilots of the known universe. So, he was quite happy to have Glittering Starlight in the pilot’s seat. As good a pilot as Beka was, Dylan still trusted more the loyalties of a Than assigned to his ship by the Than government than those of an independent – and rather self-interested – captain of a salvage ship.

But Born to Starfire, the Diamond Than representative of the royal caste, was a different matter. Dylan just couldn’t stand her self-important behaviour. Especially considering the fact that she was in the winning position here – and they both knew that. Sometimes Dylan asked himself earnestly if anyone but _Andromeda_ herself was willing to follow his orders without questioning every single one of them.

Especially with all those Nietzscheans onboard.

****

2.

Tyr Anasazi on the other hand, out of Victoria by Barbarossa son of Temujin, last survivor of Kodiak Pride, was one extremely content Nietzschean. And he had every reason for that. So far, things had developed better than he could have hoped for.

Shortly after history had re-aligned itself in the Battle of Witchhead, he had decided to contact Freya again and ask her to return to him. During Dylan’s unpleasant experience with the Arazian justice on Helios IX, he'd met her on Meitner Drift and was overjoyed to learn that she was pregnant. With _his_ child. Now he’d finally reached the status every Nietzschean male longed for: that of a husband and father.

Dylan was _not_ happy to have another Nietzschean on board – and one who had a good enough reason to hate him for the loss of her previous home. But he couldn’t deny the fact that he needed Tyr. The Than warriors were good fighters, but their loyalty belonged to their Hegemony in general and their local Diamond leader in particular. Plus, as good as they were at teamwork and following orders, they completely lacked personal initiative. Lower caste Than were just not bred for that.

Tyr, on the other hand, was a one-man-army. As long as he had his pregnant wife – the promise of the new Kodiak Pride – on board, Dylan could be reasonably certain about his loyalties. Of course, the good captain might have had a little more disturbed sleep if he’d known that Tyr had three other wives waiting for him. Two on Haukin Vora, together with twenty other survivors of Völsung Pride – something Tyr would be eternally grateful to the late President Lee of Castalia for, without whose slip of tongue he’d never have managed to find them. And one on the Centauris A colony, who secured him the alliance of a very powerful Pride Alpha. But that was something he wasn’t planning to tell his esteemed captain. Not yet, anyway.

Of course, Tyr wasn’t the only one with personal agendas for which the _Andromeda_ played a crucial role. _Everyone_ on board had them, even Harper and Rev Bem. What Tyr had, though, and the others lacked, were strong allies. Ones that stood behind him all the time, supported him, helped him to plot his plans and to ensure his immortality. Before anyone else his First Wife, the mother of his unborn child. But also the two young warriors, bound to him for a lifetime by the sacred Omega oath. And Orca Pride, over which he’d accepted the Rite of Protection, although he left daily business in Guderian’s hands. Not to mention the rest of Völsung Pride and his powerful Sabran father-in-law with an entire planet _and_ a fleet under his command.

Yes, he’d come far in the recent months. And he intended to get even further. He just had to play his cards properly.

****

3.

To say that Beka Valentine was frustrated would have been an understatement. A major one. By now, she was close to the thin line that divided simple frustration from the howling phase. And that with several very good reasons for that.

Quite frankly, her motivations to hire up on Dylan’s ship hadn’t been entirely altruistic. Dylan’s stargazing idea of reconstructing the Commonwealth meant little to her. In her opinion, the Commonwealth had been dead for three hundred years – and good riddance. Sure, a new Commonwealth could provide more safety for the travel routes, but other than that, an organization of such magnitude always meant the invention of _rules_. Lots of rules. Entirely too many of them for her taste.

What Beka had wanted when she accepted Dylan’s invitation to join the then nonexistent crew of the _Andromeda_ was _opportunity_. She had a very keen sense for opportunity, and had Dylan listened to her clever economic suggestions, with a ship this huge they could have made business in a great scale. But the spirit that Tyr liked to call ‘blind idealism’ made Dylan reject her suggestions, so that they could still barely pay for the necessary supplies. Why mining platinum asteroids or transporting cargo for a good price was below Dylan’s dignity was something Beka couldn’t understand. Must have been that High Guard morality thing again. Unfortunately, morality seldom paid off in the form of cash.

The other source of Beka’s frustration was the constant lack of proper male companionship. And things had started so well, with two such excellent male specimen on board as Dylan and Tyr – who, at that time, were even unbound. And yet all Beka’s efforts to catch their interest were of no use. Dylan was still mourning his lost fiancée and Tyr, well, he’d just gone and got himself a wife.

That had been the Nietzschean thing to do and Beka understood that. Theoretically, she also understood that the loss of his fiancée was still a very recent thing for Dylan, despite the three hundred years gone by in the outside world. And yet it was frustrating. As far as she was concerned, Sara Riley had been dead at least as long as the Commonwealth had been gone. It was unfair that one of the finest men she’d ever met would still mourn for a dead woman. When he wasn’t sucking face with psychotic blonde androids, that is.

Not that she’d have had any permanent agendas where Dylan was concerned. Nope. Beka Valentine didn’t do the tame home-making thing. But she _did_ crave a relationship that would last longer than a few days. And Dylan would have been the ideal candidate for the stable-yet-casual thing. If not for Sara’s ever-present ghost. And that frigging High Guard morality.

Even Rommie had realized this – bizarre as the idea of a warship (or her avatar) falling in love with her captain might seem. But Dylan remained just as oblivious of Rommie’s feelings (if one could speak of feelings where a _warship_ was considered) as he was oblivious of Beka’s interest – or, at the very least, he chose to ignore both.

This was useless, Beka decided angrily. It was time to look for other solutions. Both in the financial and the personal areas. And one of the Castalian representatives might just be the right choice for both.

****

4.

Tyr was lunging in bed with Freya, feeling supremely content. His plans had almost reached the next phase. All he needed to do was to finish the preparations and wait for his chance, which would arrive soon enough. In the meantime, he could enjoy the closeness of his family. Or at least part of it.

Freya wasn’t showing yet, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the fact that she _was_ carrying his child. He wished he could ask Trance to determine the child’s gender, but it would have been too much of a risk. He didn’t trust the purple girl around his wife. Trust was not a mistake Tyr would allow himself to repeat. He could not put the chance to rebuild Kodak Pride at risk.

He knew, of course, that Mikaelan and his Völsung wives had caught during his so far only visit as well. But that was an uncertain factor, while Freya’s pregnancy was _real_. Besides, Mikaelan, Derdriu and Finnabair were currently not within his reach. He couldn’t be certain about their well-being, despite them being guarded by their families – a fact which he intended to change, and soon. But first he had to do something that was even more important. And should the unlikely happen and he fail, it was better for the rest of Völsung Pride if their connection remained unknown. At least Freya was safe aboard the _Andromeda_.

Tyr sighed contently, sliding one large hand down to Freya’s belly, resting it above the place where their unborn child was slumbering. The future of Kodiak Pride. The key to his immortality.

Freya touched his hand gently and smiled. “What are you thinking about?” she asked softly. Tyr had managed to talk her out of wearing that silly fringe; her golden hair was now pulled back, out of her face, giving her the mature and respectable look of a new Pride Matriarch. Others probably wouldn’t find her strong features all that attractive. For Tyr, she was the ultimate beauty.

“The future,” Tyr replied. “What has to be done.”

“You _know_ what has to be done, don’t you?” she raised an expressive eyebrow.

They had to be very careful. They knew the ship kept them under constant surveillance, even with privacy mode engaged. Dylan Hunt knew Nietzscheans too well to trust them. Tyr appreciated that. Only a fool would repeat a mistake that had cost him a three-hundred-year exile in a black hole. Dylan Hunt might have been delusional, but he was no fool.

“I _do_ know it,” Tyr answered, “but it is complicated.”

“Of course it is,” Freya nodded. “All important things are. Options, plans, plots. So many things to weigh, so many conclusions to consider. I wonder, though, if your final decision will still include me.”

Tyr rose to one elbow and peered down at her thoughtful face in surprise.

“That’s a question you’ve asked me the first time we were together,” he said. “Do you still doubt me? Aren’t you my wife, the First of a Pride Alpha? Even though our Pride is not much at the moment, you surely know what that status means.”

“I know what the _status_ means,” Freya said. “What I still don’t know for sure is who you really are. _Everything deep loves masks_ , as the Philosopher says. And you certainly have depths in you. More than most. And hence more masks.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Tyr said, “but so do you. What you’ve done for me…your choice…required great courage and deserves admiration. It saddens me that you’d still doubt my loyalty to you.” He flexed his biceps under the double helix. “You have been the first to accept me, despite my being without a Pride. You come first. Before all plans and considerations.”

“And if I asked you to give up those plans?” Freya asked. “Would you do my bidding and reconsider?”

Tyr thought about that for a moment – then shook his head. “I would like to, if it made you happier,” he said, “but I cannot. You know how much is at stake here.”

Freya nodded, obviously proud of him. “Of course I know. And I wouldn’t respect you anymore if you’d give it all up, just at my request. But I’d never ask you anything like that, now would I?”

“So speaketh a true Matriarch.” Tyr smirked and kissed her deeply. “You want more?”

“You need to ask?” Freya replied coyly, and they initiated another bout of long, slow lovemaking.

****

5.

In their spacious quarters – formerly those of the _Andromeda_ ’s chief engineer – Technical Director Höhne and his young colleague, Assistant Field Researcher Rekeeb, were studying slipstream route displays. The reason for having shared quarters was the fact that – aside from working together – they also were bondmates. Perseids rarely formed permanent bonds, being much too self-centered and absorbed in their work for that, but it wasn’t entirely unheard of, either.

Rekeeb, considerably younger and rather striking in Perseid terms, had been assigned to the already renowned scientist Höhne several local years ago and had been living in blatant hero worship towards his superior ever since. By working together so closely for such a long time, it seemed only logical to tend to his idol’s other needs as well. Sexual intercourse was a matter of purely procreational instinct by Perseids anyway, happening only once within three cycles, and as the resulting children were generally raised by the state, emotional aspects didn’t play much of a role – if any at all.

However, during their years of shared work Höhne, too, had grown fond of his young assistant’s intellect, enthusiasm and pleasant nature. Not to mention that Rekeeb was also a sight for sore eyes – those delicate chin ridges alone could trigger the mating heat. So he chose to keep Rekeeb as mating partner over the years, and their acquaintance had already resulted in a handsome number of healthy, gifted children.

This wasn’t mating time yet, though – for which Höhne was immensely grateful. Had the mating urge not been limited to approximately ten days in every third cycle, they’d never have any work done. As currently was _not_ that time, they could focus on the task at their hands completely.

“I’m worried about Rannveig,” Höhne murmured. “He should have reached the _Andromeda_ before us; four weeks ago, in fact. I hope he hasn’t run into any trouble in the Dyhedra system. That place is nothing but a huge field of debris, since those fanatic human children wiped out the entire system.”

“Rannveig is resourceful,” Rekeeb said soothingly. “He certainly found a way. I only hope he’s also found the records you’ve set him after. If they went down with the Magog worlds in Dyhedra, they’d be lost, forever.”

“We can’t be sure,” Höhne shook his head. “There are always hidden treasures found in the most unlikely places. Although I tend to agree with you in this matter. I don’t think they’d have been many copies made of the entire library. _If_ a full record ever existed outside of Tarn-Vedra, that is.”

“There are several obvious slipstream routes Rannveig could have taken,” Rekeeb highlighted part of the map, “and several less obvious ones. But those would be extremely… risky.”

“But less obvious, as you said,” Höhne replied. “I’m certain that Rannveig would choose one of those, despite the risks. Plus, he’s one of the best slipstream pilots among us.”

“Do you know him well?” Rekeeb asked carefully. Höhne shrugged.

“Well enough to assign him to such a… sensitive mission. He used to be my personal assistant when I started my career. We have four children together.” He saw Rekeeb’s stricken face and shook his head; jealousy was such an uncommon trait for a Perseid. “Rekeeb, it was _decades_ ago! Rannveig is of my age, my children with him are almost as old as you are.”

Rekeeb ducked a little, horrified by his own, completely improper reaction. “I know I shouldn’t feel like this…it’s inappropriate. But I cannot help it; it bothers me greatly that he was part of your life when I could not.”

Höhne sighed and patted his cheek affectionately. “That’s all right. I’m with you now. And I don’t intend to seek out another partner, even though I _will_ have to mingle myself with others after this assignment. Just as _you_ will. That is our way. Now, can we work on these data some more?”

****

6.

In her quarters near Hydroponics – a twin room that looked as if almost its entire living space would have been taken up by an oversized aquarium, with the entry on top, where also low benches for visitors could be found – Castalian ambassador Rahyl Arkazha sat at her desk and checked some important messages on the vid screen. Her equipment was of Castalian design, so it worked perfectly well underwater, just as she used to work on them at home.

The ambassador herself was a squat being, hairless, with rubbery-looking black skin. In her natural environment, she didn’t need her respiratory mask that was waiting for her, with other parts of her EV equipment, just outside the room. She had webbed hands and feet; two vertical slits for a nose and no external ears, just holes in the sides of her head; both nose and ear orifices could be closed by special lids. Where the skin was close to bone, on knuckles and feet and under her square jaw, it showed yellow highlights. She wore no clothes, except for some sort of harness holding small implements and tools, to keep them from floating away. She looked like some kind of amphibian, only vaguely humanoid. An outsider would have had a hard time to guess her gender, despite her almost complete nakedness.

Truth be told, she was less than happy with this assignment, but there was nothing she could do about it. Castalia had to be represented aboard the _Andromeda_ , so that vetoes and protests could be filed immediately, and it seemed only logical that one of the water-breather majority would represent the Republic’s interests. Nevertheless, she knew that it was her often too outspoken manner that had earned her this particular ‘honour’.

Arkazha was a descendant of the original mutations, in the sixteenth generation already, which meant that she was a lot more vulnerable in foreign biotopes than the average Castalian water-breather. Unlike the majority of her modified species, she couldn’t spend more than four hours a day out of water, not even in the special suit generally used by her people for this purpose. By this particular offshot, the mutation had gone a little… wild in the first generation. By the next try, people had been more careful. She had the vague suspicion that whoever had orchestrated her assignment to this ship, they might have hoped for an unfortunate accident. Well, she was _not_ going to do them the favour.

However, interacting with the crew – and with her fellow ambassadors – would have been complicated without any help. Fortunately, the Sea-Mother granted her the assistance of Iason: a different mutation than hers and a true blessing all around. While partially a water-breather, Iason’s specifically engineered lung/quill system enabled him of staying out of water as long as twelve hours, and he was also a lot less inclined to get that annoying skin irritation in the dry artificial atmosphere of the _Andromeda_.

During the other half of the day, Iason had to go underwater, too. Out of practicality, they shared Arkazha’s ‘aquarium’, as the ship’s young engineer called it. They’d never been anything else than good friends and efficient co-workers, though. Nor did they have the wish to become anything else – the physical differences would have been too great anyway. An opaque screen dividing their quarters provided the necessary privacy. Besides, Castalians were a lot less paranoid about personal space than unmodified humans.

At the moment, Iason was out, making friends with the Than hive. With the Nietzscheans onboard – especially a Kodiak – the Castalians needed allies. And Than could be fiercely loyal, if necessary. Not to mention that they weren’t exactly enamoured in the Nietzscheans, either. Arkazha used the time to skim through the most important news. The merge of TransGalactic Shipping with Quantum Express could have a serious impact on Castalian trade. She needed to track down the newly opened trading routes that had resulted from this union. _Then_ she needed some more insider information from the Free Trade Alliance. Maybe Captain Valentine could be of some assistance in this matter, with her brother being an FTA agent. And Beka Valentine used to be an independent businesswoman. She might still be willing to listen to certain… suggestions.

****

7.

Born to Starfire, the leader of the Than mating group aboard the _Andromeda Ascendant_ , used the absence of her hive-mates for some silent contemplation. Working so closely with sentient mammals, regardless if they breathed air or water, was an interesting challenge. Mammals were primitive, animalistic, and practically incapable of teamwork, unless integrated into a well-organized institution, under the tight control of a strong leader.

On the other hand, their inspired thinking had a touch of genius that Than seemed to lack. At least in these dark times. Born to Starfire remembered watching the old _Andromeda_ vids and seeing the easy confidence of Refractions of Dawn, working alone among a crew of thousands, the overwhelming majority of which had been mammals.

The Diamond Than shook her head regretfully. Although their home systems counted as relatively safe, even in the post-Fall universe, the Than leaders _did_ realize how much they had forgotten during the last three hundred years. They desperately needed to relearn those things, if they wanted to come out of stagnation. The fact that their colony had been helpless against the Nietzschean pirates for more than fifty years was proof enough.

That was the reason why their small hive had been assigned to the _Andromeda Ascendant_. To _learn_. To see if Captain Hunt’s vision of a new Commonwealth had any merit at all. If it offered a better chance for the Than race to develop and grow than the return to the old ways after the Fall had. _That_ way, though it had helped the Than to survive the dark years, had ultimately led to stagnation. The question was, would joining Hunt’s dream offer a way out of it?

Personally, Born to Starfire didn’t believe so. But she was a determined to use the opportunity to make contacts and alliances to as many other worlds and races as she could. Castalia and Ornithrone, with their various sentient species, were only the beginning

Born to Starfire was an ambitious individual. She belonged to the small percentage of the Diamond Caste that could be considered by the selection of the next Overdiamond – the supreme ruler of her entire race, the one whom they spoke of as the Hegemon when mentioning her to outsiders. Individuals born with the required abilities to became Overdiamond were extremely rare; at the moment perhaps three dozen or so on all the hundreds of Than planets. They were all registered and carefully monitored, tested in multiple tasks, one of which – perhaps the most important one – was diplomacy.

A fine chime disrupted her thoughts. As she was not only a leader but also the Than equivalent of a priest, it was required from her subjects to request entry in a ritual manner. She gave the clicking tone of permission, and Radiance of Wisdom entered, bowing in respect, her brilliant blue carapace glittering in the dimly lit cabin.

“The Castalian attaché has arrived,” the Sapphire Than reported.

Born to Starfire nodded. Radiance of Wisdom was probably the best scholar of their whole settlement – an excellent linguist, with an almost instinctive talent for dealing with artificial intelligences – which was the reason why she had been chosen for this mission. Born to Starfire appreciated her greatly.

“Lead him in,” the Diamond Than said and rose.

Yes, this meeting was very important. The Castalians hadn’t been friends with the Nietzscheans, no more than the Than had. Making an alliance would be mutually beneficial for them, if they wanted to counteract the growing Nietzschean influence aboard the ship.

She had waited and watched long enough. It was time to make her first move.

****

8.

In Hydroponics, two vaguely female entities were having a really good time. Trance Gemini, purple from head to toe and more cheerful all the time than any sane human being could have endured for the duration, was trimming her bonsai trees while humming some indefinable melody and bouncing to the rhythm.

Her companion, Farrendahl of Makrai VII, looked like a big, sleek, jet-black cat, aside from her face, which was covered with white fur, making her look as if she wore a mask, and her ears that were more like those of a Terran lynx. She had six fingers on each hand, with sharp claws that she could extend or withdraw by choice, while her feet were similar to those of all other felines. She had huge, yellow eyes with vertical pupils and wore no clothes, save for a utility belt. Her long tail, which she could use as a fifth appendage, was currently curled around her, as she was lying comfortably on the floor, under some exotic tree.

She had come aboard by accident, more or less, having tried to get home from a bio-engineering conference held on El Dorado Drift for quite some time. And although Makrai VII wasn’t among the immediate stops the _Andromeda_ was scheduled to make, she didn’t mind it. The Makra seldom left their home planet, but Farrendahl was one of the rare individuals who enjoyed travelling. Meeting previously unknown species was something she found intellectually challenging – and Trance Gemini was certainly something she hadn’t even heard of before.

Despite their excellent eyesight – a trait common among felines, sentient or otherwise – the Makra primarily relied on their sense of smell. Smell went beyond the mere surface. Eyes could be fooled easily. A good nose could not. And Farrendahl had an excellent nose, even as Makra go. Therefore, she discovered easily enough that the purple entity was not what she – it – looked. Farrendahl wasn’t even sure that Trance Gemini was a she. She had no idea who – or _what_ – Trance was, but she was determined to find out.

Listening distractedly to the cheerful chatter with one tufted ear, she carefully extended her other senses – smell mostly, the most reliable of all, but also that uncanny sixth sense, possessed by Makra only in the known universe, which enabled her to feel the changes in magnetic fields and the vibrations in space. She felt that faint buzz again – that indefinable background noise, like static, she’d only ever felt when around Trance.

Interesting. Very interesting indeed. She couldn’t remember any old songs about creatures that would cause this sort of feedback. Having ‘listened’ to dozens of different species in her life – she wasn’t very young in Makra norms – Farrendahl was fairly sure that she had discovered something new…or something very, very old.

It was worth spending some of her time among strangers. Especially since Hydroponics had a pleasing similarity to her warm, wet jungle homeworld.

****

9.

Seamus Zelazny Harper had become strangely…subdued since the historic events in the Witchhead nebula. Sure, on the surface he was still wearing his overconfident, cheerful mask, praising his own genius by every chance, flirting, wisecracking…the usual. But in the inside…

It was not the fact that the bomb he had built with his own hands had killed a hundred thousand Nietzscheans that really bothered him. The Niets had done nothing else on Earth, after all…had been doing it ever since their arrival, in fact. In a way, Niets were worse than Magog. Magog came, ravaged, killed, maimed, laid their eggs – and vanished again. Niets, on the other hand, came for the duration. Bringing their own sick sort of order – an order that made ordinary humans starving slaves, rape victims, bipedal punchballs – way less than animals.

No, Harper didn’t regret having built the fusion catalyst bomb. There were only two things he regretted about the whole affair. Firstly, that all his efforts hadn’t changed a thing. He failed his people, big time. Earth still was a hellhole, groaning under the iron boots of the Niets. And secondly that he, Harper, had become like them: a cold-blooded killer.

All right, it was _Dylan_ who’d given the order. And yes, it _was_ necessary to destroy those Nietzschean ships, or else the Dark Age would have become much, much longer…permanent even. Tyr had admitted that himself, saying that guilt was a wasted emotion. Hell, _Tyr_ hadn’t moved a finger to save his own people, preferring to ensure his own survival. And still – knowing that in theory and being the one who handed the Angel of Death its sword of destruction were two different things.

And Harper was lonely. As much as he liked it aboard the _Andromeda_ – and he _did_ like it a great deal; after all, he had a purpose here, acceptance of his skills and creature comfort – he missed the close-knit camaraderie they used to have on the _Maru_ when there still had been only the four of them. They were a family; a weird and often dysfunctional one, but a family nevertheless.

But now? Now Beka was obsessed with Dylan, Trance was busy with her plants and her new friend, Ms Catwoman, the Rev had retreated into a meditative phase, and Harper – Harper was alone.

Dylan had Rommie (thank to Harper, a fact that was massively under-appreciated), the chinheads had each other, the two fishnecks had their close friendship, Tyr had his wife and the _Über_ twins, the bugs had a whole frigging _hive_ – just Harper didn’t have anyone.

Harper backed out of the access tube. It was late, and he hadn’t done much work today, wasting his time with wallowing in good, old-fashioned self-pity. That meant a double shift on the next day, but that couldn’t be helped.

He left the machine shop and returned to his quarters. Stripping on his way to the bathroom, he left his clothes lying among the flimsies and spare parts that were scattered all across the place. It didn’t matter; his quarters had always been a mess, now that he had enough room to his disposal to _create_ a mess in the first place. Too used to cramped places. Or he was just a slob by design. He didn’t really care.

Stepping under the shower, he adjusted the water temperature, so that it became scalding hot. Maybe, if he stood long enough under the hot stream, it would wash away his guilt and his loneliness, too.


	3. The Holy Grail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue lines are slightly modified versions of the original dialogue from _Music of a Distant Drum_. A lot of Nietzschean philosophy is based on _The Ancestor’s Breath_ by Keith Hamilton Cobb himself, but there is only one direct quote, which is marked as such. Also, I accepted Tyr’s genealogy as given there as semi-canon, and the history of his ancestors as well.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **CHAPTER 1 – THE HOLY GRAIL**

Beka Valentine had never visited Tyr’s quarters before, although formally they should have gone to her, as they had once belonged to the _Andromeda_ ’s first officer. But since said first officer had been a Nietzschean, everyone aboard silently accepted Tyr’s claim. Tyr’s private life was something of a mystery for the rest of the crew. The only one who’d ever been in his quarters was Harper to fix the occasional technical problem. He described Tyr’s home as “dark, Spartan and depressing, with creepy plants”. Standing in front of the door, Beka wondered how much of that was true and how much was simply Harper’s personal taste, which tended towards eye-hurtingly bright colours.

One of the twins – whom Tyr had brought back from wherever he happened to find some Völsung survivors – answered the door. Arjuna, Beka realized at the second look. They were absolutely identical, aside from the fact that one of them was male, the other female. They also tended to wear sensible clothing, unlike the usual show-offish Niet fashion. Save the sleeveless vests, of course, but that was a given, because of the forearm spikes.

“Captain Valentine,” the young man said with rather un-Nietzschean politeness; very few _Über_ s bothered with manners. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to Freya,” Beka replied. “In private. Woman to woman, as they say.”

“Which means that you need something from Tyr,” Freya, looking absolutely stunning in her sleeveless, deep blue morning robe, waved to Arjuna to step aside. She had just begun to show, a small, barely visible bulge breaking the lean lines of her athletic figure. “Do come in, please, and speak your mind. We’re both mature adults, there’s no need to play those little conversational games humans seem so fond of.”

“You mean small talk?” Beka grinned. Niet-speak could be unintentionally funny at times. Freya grinned back.

“It seems I need to interact with humans more,” she judged. “Last time Mr. Harper was here to fix an airduct ventil, I had serious difficulties understanding him. He prefers a rather… colourful language.”

“That’s an Earth thing,” Beka told her. “Half the time _I don’t_ understand what Harper is talking about either, and he was my engineer for five years! He either talks technobabble only the chinheads can follow, or makes old Earth cultural references that won’t ring a bell by anyone. But he’s cute – and very useful.”

“That’s true,” Freya took place on the large couch, folding her long legs under herself and ordering the deep blue and black velvet cushions so that they would support her back. Then she gestured Beka to have a seat next to her. “So, what do you want from me?”

“I’m here to make Tyr a business proposal of mutual advantage,” Beka said, accepting a cup of herbal tea from the young bodyguard. Freya, taking her own cup, raised an eyebrow.

“Should I ask for privacy mode?” her tone revealed that she didn’t trust the ship not to eavesdrop anyway.

“No need,” Beka replied, “I already have. And for the next twenty minutes or so, we _shall_ have privacy. As I said, Harper is very useful.”

“I see,” Freya filed away the information with the mental note of asking the little engineer about the method later. “So, what is this about?”

“Money,” Beka said bluntly. “I’m almost broke. I still owe the major part of my Dad’s old debts to various loan sharks, and I’m not getting paid for the noble quest of restoring the Commonwealth here. The only reason why I still can keep the _Maru_ is that even Nightsider loan sharks would think twice before provoking the _Andromeda_. But they won’t wait forever.”

“Or they can sell your debts to, say, Jaguar loan sharks, who’d not have such concerns,” Freya added. “I understand your problem. What’s the proposal?”

“I’ll show you,” Beka placed her untouched teacup onto the table. “May I use your computer?”

“Be my guest,” Freya sipped her tea, and Beka stepped to the console and pulled up some info on the viewscreen.

“Are you familiar with the Katana System? It’s only four slipstream transits away, and it has an asteroid belt where eighty-seven per cent of the asteroids have lager deposits of pure platinum. The route is difficult and the ride bumpy, to put it mildly, but I’ve been there before. All we’d need to do is to take the point defence lasers and carve the platinum out. We could make a small fortune there!”

‘Which Captain Hunt refuses to do,” Freya nodded, understanding the problem.

“Yeah,” Beka sighed, her frustration obvious. “I could finally, for the first time in my life, come out of the red numbers, and he finds it beneath his dignity to carry cargo or to perform a mining operation. _Andromeda_ has a cargo capacity of _then million_ frigging cubic metres, and it’s not used for _anything_! We’d be rid of financial problems for the next _years_ , every single one of us! But Saint Dylan prefers to head straight for Asampa and let Born to Starfire chat with the local bugs in behalf of the New Commonwealth instead.”

“I understand why this has to be frustrating for you,” Freya said, “but I still don’t know what you want from Tyr.”

Beka rolled her eyes. “Look, Freya, I’m not a fool. You guys cover your track skilfully, but it’s clear that Tyr has good connections. I’m sure he could find some ships of respectable cargo capacity to mine those asteroids – it’s not so that we’d need the _Andromeda_ specifically. The most important factors are the cargo capacity and the firepower to keep competition away.”

“I see,” Freya said. “But why would Tyr want to take part of such an operation? What benefit would he have from helping you?”

“One always benefits from making more money,” Beka replied bluntly. “Besides, he owes me several favours for me letting him borrow the _Maru_ now and again, after which times my ship is always in a much worse shape than it had been before.”

“There _is_ some truth in that,” Freya admitted. She thought about the matter for a while. “You understand that I cannot make any promises?” she then asked. “But I’ll speak to Tyr on your behalf when he returns.”

“That’s all I ask,” Beka switched off the console and walked over to the other side of the living room, where a strange potted plant stood on a small podest. It had long, elastic ranks with very dark green, waxy leaves, creeping all over the wall behind it, and emitted a scent that was sweet and spicy at the same time. “Is this the ‘creepy plant’ Harper was talking about? I’ve never seen anything like this, not even in Trance’s little shop of horrors.”

“It’s called Dragonia Vines,” Freya explained. “The plant was thought to be extinct for quite some time… just like Kodiak Pride. The two belong together; they have, since the days of Drago Museveni. They say, before Paul Museveni created out race, he’d made his first attempt on plants. Dragonia Vines were the first one hundred per cent genetically engineered plants. His masterpiece, before he turned to higher lifeforms.”

“They are beautiful,” Beka stepped closer, but jumped back as the ranks began to move towards her, “but disturbingly alive. The scent is near irresistible, though.”

“It’s a killer,” Freya joined her, holding out a hand, and one of the ranks swung over to rest in her palm. “The Vines react to the Progenitor’s DNA. Only those who are a close match can touch the ranks unharmed. Right now, I’m protected by my unborn child, who carries the Progenitor’s genes. Otherwise, the rank would scratch me with the small, fang-like thorns on the underside of the leaves and release a deadly toxin into my system. A toxin that would kill me within twenty seconds.”

Beka shuddered. “And you live with such a horror plant under the same roof? Harper’s right; you Niets are a weird bunch.”

“Perhaps,” Freya patted the rank and guided it back to the wall. “But it’s only dangerous when you get too close. That’s why it needs to be trimmed regularly,” she added, grabbing a pair of scissors and cutting off a rank that had grown too long. “There’s beauty in danger and danger in beauty; to appreciate one, you must accept the other.”

“I didn’t know that Niets cared for beauty,” Beka said. “Why should you? Were you not – all of you – engineered for perfection?”

“We were,” Freya agreed, “but beauty is so much more than just sterile perfection. That is which many of us – human and Nietzschean alike – fail to understand. Seeing ourselves as something separate from the rest of the Universe is a delusion. A weakness, if you want to call it that. A weakness that can only be conquered by widening the circle of understanding and compassion, until we realize that all living creatures and the whole of nature are only different aspects of the eternal beauty of what we call the Universe.”

Beka blinked several times, surprised by the philosophical depths suddenly opening before her metaphorical feet.

“That doesn’t sound like something Nietzsche would say,” she said uncertainly.

“No,” Freya admitted. “That is something a physicist named Albert Einstein said, though not with exactly the same words, three thousand years ago. And yet it has become an important cornerstone of Kodiak philosophy during the millennia, as generations upon generations of Tyr’s ancestors discussed it, worked on its interpretation and handed down the results to their progeny to build a structure around it. A structure that is unique among Nietzschean teachings.”

“There’s something I always wanted to know,” Beka said. “What’s made the Kodiak so special that they were chosen to guard Drago’s bones? As far as I know, they’ve never been a particularly big Pride, so why them?”

“For several reasons,” Freya replied. “First and foremost, the ruling family of the Kodiak – Tyr’s clan – has always been considered the direct descendants of Drago himself. There’s no hard proof for that, of course – at least nothing else but the close genetic match with the Progenitor in many clan members, including Tyr himself. Have you ever heard of the Second Coming?”

“The legend that one day Drago Museveni will be reborn and reunite the Prides? Yeah, everyone who’s ever had contact with Niets has, I guess.”

“It’s more than a legend,” Freya corrected. “Genetic twins do exist among Nietzscheans. They are extremely rare, true, but they exist. The Second Coming _is_ a distinct possibility, and Tyr’s clan had the best chance for some of their males fathering the Progenitor reborn.”

“Was that the true reason why the Dragans massacred them?” Beka asked. “To prevent the Second Coming?”

“No,” Freya shook her head, “they wanted to eliminate the competition. By controlling Drago’s bones, thy have the means to verify – or reject – the Progenitor when he returns.”

Beka noticed that she’d said ‘ _when_ he returns,’ not _if_. “That’s an awful lot of power,” she whispered. She felt like becoming sick from the mere thought of a united Niet empire with a messiah on the throne.

Freya nodded. “The Drago-Kazov were not willing to wait for the Second Coming. They wanted to reunite the Prides on their own, by force. Twenty-two years ago, just like today, the three major players were the Drago-Kazov, the Sabra and the Jaguar. Kodiak Pride was the point of balance between them; the Drago-Kazov changed that balance to their favour.”

“And _your_ people helped them,” Beka said, “at least according to Tyr.”

“Oh, he _was_ telling the truth,” Freya shrugged. “At that time, our Pride Alpha was hoping that Orca Pride, closely allied with the Drago-Kazov as we were, would take over the role of the Kodiak. Instead we were nearly wiped out in that battle. The Kodiak fought like berserkers – if not for the sheer numbers of the Drago-Kazov, they might even have won. What was left of our Pride could no more be of any use for the Drago-Kazov. They dropped us like as much useless garbage. That was when Vladimir, the old Alpha, Guderian’s father, gathered the survivors around him and led us to the asteroid where you found us.”

“So the betrayal didn’t pay off,” Beka said, regretting her words immediately. It wasn’t a wise thing to insult a Nietzschean. Not even a pregnant, female one. To her relief, however, Freya didn’t seem insulted.

“Knee-jerk moralizing is a human failing(1), Captain Valentine,” she said calmly. “The concept of Nietzschean philosophy is that any way to win is the best way. That doesn’t mean that we don’t have ethics – we do. And our values differ not so fundamentally from yours as you might think. We are just more honest about them. Our mindframe is strictly, genetically driven towards survival. The survival of the self and the survival of the Pride. Everything else is of secondary importance.”

“So, there’s nothing a Nietzschean would sacrifice himself?” Beka asked, her curiosity picked. She might learn more about Niet mindset in these minutes than she had in her entire life.

“There is,” Freya said. “He or she would die protecting the family or the Pride. As Tyr’s parents did. As my father did. As I would do without as much as a nanosecond of hesitation to protect my child. But for nothing else.” She paused for a moment, then smiled faintly. “I understand that I’m making you uncomfortable. Humans tend to see themselves in the veiled mirror of ideals and self-delusion; looking at oneself in the harsh light of reality can be painful. But remember: aside from the magnitude, we are very much alike. Nietzscheans are like humans, watched in a magnifying mirror… both the good and the bad sides are represented tenfold.”

“More often the bad ones, I’m afraid,” Beka said snidely.

“I guess from your point of view it must look like that,” Freya nodded. “But especially you, Captain Valentine, have a lot of Nietzschean traits in you. You are remarkably self-interested, quite ruthless for a human, you are a survivor, and you’d die for your ‘family’, even though they are just a bunch of strangers who’ve joined you for their own reasons. Not many human women would be able to become a respected member of a Nietzschean Pride – you are one of those rare individuals.”

Beka shot her a half-amused, half-suspicious glance.

“Are you courting me for Tyr?” she asked. “Is that even legal for Niets?”

“Some Prides, including the Kodiak, allowed human consorts, to add fresh DNA to the gene pool,” Freya answered. “These humans didn’t have the status of actual spouses, and the offspring underwent genetic modifications, but they were highly respected nevertheless. And no, I’m not ‘courting’ you. In fact, I’d never give my consent, should Tyr want to include you in our family.”

“Why not?” Beka asked, slightly shocked by the turn their conversation was taking.

“You’d be too dangerous a competition,” Freya said simply. “I have nothing to fear from the other wives – they are Nietzscheans, who know their own status and place in the family. You’d always remain unpredictable.”

Beka shook her head, laughing.

“You are a strange woman,” she said. “Quite frankly, you give me the creeps.”

“Good,” Freya grinned. “I like you, Captain Valentine, I really do. It’s a pity you aren’t one of us. I’d hate it if I had to kill you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the meantime, Tyr had already docked the _Maru_ at Haukin Tau Drift. Well, to be more accurate, the ship was now registered as the _Klondike Trail_ and Tyr himself as its owner and operator, someone named Barabas Jericho. This was one of the several aliases he’d used in his days as a mercenary. The persona even had its own bank account, just in case. Unless the dockmaster recognized him as his true self – which was unlikely, since the dockmasters changed all the time – he could move on the Drift without drawing any unwanted attention. Nietzscheans weren’t exactly rare here.

Tyr checked his rent apartment, the base of his operations fro years and advised his bank, also located on the Drift, to transfer a certain amount of money to Harper’s account for the excellent falsification of ship's papers and his alias’ ID. The little professor did nice work when released onto a computer. After that, Tyr prepared several coded messages for the El-Hakim clan in general and for his Second Wife, Mikaelan, in particular. Not having anything else to do, at least for the time being, he then sat down with a selected book to enjoy himself until his pre-scheduled meeting with Ferahr. He didn’t need to plan his next step – it was everything carefully worked out already.

Nietzscheans, as a rule, weren’t all too fond of romantic literature from Earth’s Middle Ages. For this trip, however, Tyr brought with him the printed-out version of Wolfram von Eschenbach’s “Parsifal”. Few people chose real books anymore in this age of flimsies, but Tyr, as most Nietzscheans, was a traditionalist. And he could afford the luxury of having real books.

Despite the insane and suicidal moral code of medieval knights, which he could only contemplate with utter dismay, Tyr did feel a certain kinship with Parsifal, the young and naïve boy who devoted his entire life to finding the Holy Grail. Although not that young anymore (despite his youthful looks), nor having ever been that naïve, not since the massacre on his Pride, he, too, was on his way to retrieve the Holy Grail of his people.

From the beginning, to all the Prides warring with each other, the Progenitor’s remains were sacred. Even amidst of the longest and bloodiest civil war known to Nietzschean society, none of them would risk their loss. Thus they had been entrusted to the Kodiak, enshrined on an insignificant world encompassed by an unobtrusive solar system that all warring parties had acknowledged as a demilitarized zone and sworn to protect. There the bones had rested for the duration of the war, and the Kodiak had grown over-confident and careless in their safety - a safety known to no other Pride.

They had paid a terrible price for their arrogance.

During the two decades since the utter annihilation of his Pride, Tyr had had enough time to think about the hows and whys of their fate. The mistakes that had been made and the signs that had been ignored by a self-absorbed Pride that had been slowly changing, moving on to a higher level of culture and civilization, in an era when all but the more primal Nietzschean traits were doomed to fail.

Tyr was not about to repeat those mistakes. Just as his most famous ancestor, Suleiman “the Sultan” who, returning from the lost Battle of Witchhead one arm shorter and handed over leadership to his first son, Temujin, the most relentless and unimpassioned, virile destroyer that their bloodline had ever known, Tyr, last living branch of that once strong tree, had made a conscious step backwards. Back to his ancestors before Suleiman, who’d been hunter-killers first and foremost, undiluted by any newfound tendencies toward compassion and introspection.

Barbarossa Anasazi (out of Isis by Temujin II) had raised his many sons, of whom Tyr was the third-youngest, to become both scholars and warriors. Fate and the hard-won experiences of his life had taught Tyr, now the only Kodiak progeny still alive, to keep his scholarly interests hidden, as they would seem a weakness facing the unadulterated Nietzschean viciousness reborn immediately after the fall of the Commonwealth. He had become a mercenary, a professional killer, driven by the sole urge to rebuild his Pride and retrieve his birthright.

He had made some headway with the rebuilding part already. His four wives and two consorts were all expecting and, against all hope, he had found what remained from Völsung Pride, the offshot of his own people, after the Castalian War of Independence. It was time now to do something for the retrieving part.

Tyr put his book aside and left the apartment, heading for Ferahr’s place.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
At about the same time, in the machine shops of the _Andromeda Ascendant_ four Amber Than workers – called by Harper Brownie #1, Brownie #2, Brownie #3 and Brownie #4 – were busily cooperating with the droids to repair the damage caused by the recent encounter with the _Pax Magellanic_. The were also having an animated discussion in their own language that sounded like a series of cackling and clicking tones in Amritray’s ear. When they spoke fast, it was like the knattering of an automatic projectile weapon.

“They are excited,” Harper said with a shrug. “It seems, Brownie Three here has a relative or a hundred on Asampa. They are looking forward to a really big bug party when we arrive.”

“You don’t seem to share their enthusiasm, though,” Amritray tilted her head to the side and looked over the engineer with a displeased frown. Harper had dark circles around his eyes and obviously lacked his usual energy.

“No shit,” Harper slid down the bulkhead and leaned against it. “I’d like it if Dylan could stop his holy crusade just once for a few days, until I can make the most pressing repairs in peace. A man can only live so long on Sparky and adrenaline alone.”

“Interesting,” Amritray said. “I thought you _klu_ … you humans would be ecstatic to see order re-established. To be able to feel safe from Nietzschean raiders again.”

Harper shot her a dirty look. “I heard that _kludge_ remark, Miss _Über_. For your information, the only thing that would make me ecstatic would be chasing the Drago-Kazov jerkoffs away from Earth, forever. And we both know how likely _that_ is to happen.”

“Nothing is impossible with proper preparation and the right allies,” Amritray replied calmly. “It seems to me, that at least in this case, my Alpha happens to have the same enemies.”

Harper glared at her in suspicion – then he began to laugh so hard that tears were running down his face. His amusement, although it had a slightly… hysteric quality, seemed genuine.

“Oh, this is strong,” he chuckled. “So, Tyr wants something from me again, and he ordered _you_ to make nice with the _kludge_ and warm me up for his propositions?”

“That is correct,” Amritray said with a shrug. “Do you have a problem with it? He thought you’d be more comfortable around me, since I’m female and smaller than the average Nietzschean.”

“But twice as deadly, right?” Harper riposted, suddenly serious again. “No, I don’t have a problem with you. At least you are being honest, instead of faking personal interest in me. I can live with that.”

“I _do_ find you interesting,” Amritray said. “You have survived under circumstances that would break most people. And you have talents that I lack. It’s not your fault that you aren’t Nietzschean.”

“Geez, thanks… I think,” Harper shook his head in exasperation. “Only you _Über_ s can phrase a compliment that it would sound like an insult. But I appreciate the sentiment all the same. So, what does Tyr want this time?”

“I don’t know – not yet,” Amritray shrugged. “He only said that you’re too valuable to be harmed, so we should keep an eye on you for him, my brother and I.”

“The Harper is _valuable_ ,” the engineer shook his head again. “Well, that’s as close as I could ever come to Tyr admitting that I’m not a lower life-form, I guess.”

“He also said that you could use some combat training,” Amritray added with a grin. Harper grinned back, his foul mood momentarily forgotten. It wasn’t every day that he could come bodily close to a pretty Niet babe, even if beating him up was part of the fun.

“Are you volunteering?”

“If you are interested. Arjuna and I can show you some tricks. We had to learn how to beat much stronger adversaries, too.

Harper glanced at her thoughtfully. Sure, she was a Niet – which meant treacherous, untrustworthy and completely ruthless. But she was also frigging hot, with her long, slender limbs, bronze skin, shiny black hair and almond eyes. A killer babe, most certainly, but still a babe. And he’d suffered from the desperate lack of female company for quite some time. Besides, Try was right. He _could_ use the training.

“We can give it a try,” he finally said. “But you mist promise not to break any bones. I have to be able to crawl in the conduits to keep doing my job.”

“I think you’re a lot less breakable than you’d like to appear,” Amritray laughed. “But I promise we’ll be easy on you – in the first time anyway.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When Tyr reached the large, windowless office of Ferahr in the centre of the Drift, he found the owner of said office – a big, heavy-set human with sandy curls and a more ridiculous fashion sense than even Harper – eating something questionable at his desk. Neither of which was really surprising. The main goal of Ferahr’s existence seemed to be to find something to eat, and nothing Tyr had ever seen him eating so far – which became a fairly broad scale during the last two years – would be palatable for anyone with the faintest sense for healthy nourishment. Humans had a disturbing tendency to kill themselves slowly with junk food. Or, in Harper’s case, with liquefied sugar and caffeine, disguised as a drink called Sparky Cola.

“So,” Tyr said as he strode in, “it is midday. Where is my ship?”

Ferahr looked up to him with one baleful eye, keeping the other one firmly at whatever was in his bowl. “And a wonderful day to you, too. I hope you’re all right. Why don’t we sit down and have a little drink like good…”

“Ferahr,” Tyr growled, “I don’t have time for this!”

“Right, why should you now – you never do. Social graces are completely lost on you Niets!” With a long-suffering sigh, Ferahr pushed his bowl of soup (or something like that) aside and got to his feet with some difficulty. “Well, come with me then. Your ship is in the impound lot. I’ve already put a top-level bribe on it, so there’ll be no problem with getting it. No problem at all.”

They walked over to the impound lot, where the Than officer greeted Ferahr with that particular friendliness reserved for special customers. They were allowed to the freighter immediately, and Tyr eyed the little ship with appreciation. Originally, it must have been the pleasure cruiser of some rich merchant – a Nightsider, most likely – but was modified for cargo transport later. Still, the generous quarters remained, making it eminently practical for a large family. It was about ten per cent bigger than the _Maru_ but would still fit into the hangar of any big ship easily. And it was in a relatively good shape.

“I’ll take it,” he told Ferahr simply. The human shook his head in amazement.

“I’ll never understand you, honestly. What do you want with a freighter? I thought you’d want a Goruda-class fighter, at the very least.”

“That would be too obvious,” Tyr explained patiently. “Besides, a freighter, if properly upgraded, could pull just as much of a punch, while melding with the background a lot better. Did you know that my most famous ancestor, Suleiman, fought the Battle of Witchhead with a commandeered freighter, refitted for the war and renamed _Pride’s Provocation_?”

“No, I did not,” Ferahr watched him with renewed interest. “I assume he made it out, since you are here.”

Tyr nodded. He wasn’t going to tell Ferahr the entire story of bitter defeat and humiliation.

“He did. Which proves my point. It doesn’t matter what a ship was built for, as long as we can modify it for our own purposes.”

“And give it a fancy name, eh?” Ferahr said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What are you gonna name this one?”

“ _Klondike Trail_ ,” Tyr said simply.

“Huh?” Ferahr’s small eyes were literally bulging. “I thought it was the name of the rustbin you’ve come here with.”

“It was indeed.”

“And you’re gonna call your new ship the same?”

“That is correct.”

“You know, you’ve had some crazy ideas since we’ve known each other, but I think this is the most hare-brained of all.”

“That’s not your problem,” Tyr said bluntly. “Of all the things I have needed from you or will ever need, your thoughts will most certainly never be counted among them.”

“Right, why do I bother,” Ferahr shook his head in exasperation. “I’ll just sit here, take your mail, get all the stuff you want… after all, am I not your personal secretary?”

“And since you work on percentage, this arrangement has always been of your advantage,” Tyr countered.

“My Da always warned me of working for people who see me as a lower life form,” Ferahr muttered. “I should have listened to him.”

Tyr rolled his eyes. He really, honestly didn’t have the time to stroke the human’s bruised ego, but he knew he shouldn’t risk alienating Ferahr. The human was useful _and_ reliable – a combination none of his other business partners possessed.

“Listen, you foolish human,” he said in a low voice. “It is better for your continuing health when you know as little of what’s going on behind the scenes as possible. I don’t want to put your life at more risk than your eating habits would, do you understand? Let no one think that I’d trust you, and no one will try to extract information from you – which could be unpleasant.”

Ferahr paled considerably. He knew Tyr had been messing with Nietzschean politics lately, and the last thing he wanted to get caught in some _Über_ clinch. As Tyr said, that would have been rather unpleasant.

“Let me tell you something, Tyr,” he said slowly “I liked it a lot better when you still were a lone mercenary and all I had to do was to find you bigger and bigger hand weapons. It was… safer back then.”

“Perhaps,” Tyr agreed. “But if the signs that I have been watching for some time don’t lie, and I cannot see how they would, you are going to need what I’m about to become. You are going to need protection. You and everyone else on this Drift, or on that planet below.”

“And you gonna be able to protect me?” Ferahr asked doubtfully. “To protect us all?”

Tyr flashed him a big grin. “I’m working on it. Now, what do I have to do to call this boat mine?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Two and a half hours later all formalities were taken care of, and Tyr was piloting his newly acquired ship, that now officially wore the name of _Klondike Trail_ , owned and operated by a certain Barabas Jericho, towards the planet Haukin Vora. He couldn’t tell Ferahr, but he had deliberately used the falsified papers and his fake ID for both his own ship and the _Maru_. The idea was to lay a false trail and confuse potential pursuers and Dragan spies. While he was doing what he had to do with his own ship, the _Maru_ , registered under the same name and with the same owner, would lie peacefully in the drydock of Haukin Tau Drift, having its failed plasma regulator repaired.

As an added bonus, it would be hard to find a connection between the sole merc Jericho, flying and upgraded freighter, and Tyr Anasazi, serving as weapons control officer aboard the _Andromeda Ascendant_ , the “flying embassy of the New Commonwealth”, as the Perseids liked to call it. Personally, Tyr thought it sounded stupid, but as long as the _Andromeda_ served his purposes, he didn’t really care.

One day, soon, he wouldn’t need the _Andromeda_ anymore. He would stand on the command deck of the refitted, reprogrammed and renamed _Pax Magellanic_ and fight his enemies from a superior position. Until then, however, the _Klondike Trail_ will serve as a temporary home for his family, in times when Haukin Vora might not be safe enough for them. And it would make him mobile, independently from both the _Andromeda_ and the _Maru_.

An upgraded freighter was good enough for Suleiman “The Sultan” to go to war. It would be good enough for him, Suleiman’s late progeny, to weave his web, until he can appear in his true role openly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Quoted from _The Relativity of Ethics_ , in _The Ancestor’s Breath_ by Keith Hamilton Cobb. Alas, the site has been down for quite some time, but let's hope it'll come back up one day.


	4. The Knights of the Round Table

**CHAPTER 2 – THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE**

Leaving Haukin Vora spaceport, Tyr took a deep breath from the cool, crisp air. After an extended period of time in space, even aboard a ship like the _Andromeda_ , recycled air could become stale – he found the chillness of the tundra planet refreshing. It also reminded him of home. The Kodiak asteroid homeworld, established after the bombing of Fountainhead – either by a vengeful Hugh Guard ship or by the treacherous Jaguars – was a cold place, too, and even more barren.

For his part, Tyr preferred at least _some_ natural growth on a planet (a tundra world would definitely be his personal choice) but he could understand the reasons for which his long-gone home had been selected at that time. To be hidden and unobtrusive… and close to their main allies, the allies who’d later betrayed and massacred them.

It was strange that he would get to see the homeworld again, even if only from space. That lifeless piece of rock that not even the blood of his entire Pride could make fertile again – or protect. The place that once had been the most sacred to all Nietzscheans but was now the resting place of thousands of unburied dead. An abandoned battlefield, strewn with corpses. _His_ blood. _His_ people. _His_ parents and siblings and their spouses and children and servants and combatants. A terrible memento of a mistake that must  not be repeated. The mistake of trust.

He regretted the lost opportunity to visit his Völsung kinsmen, especially his wives, but it was better so. They were the last of Kodiak blood (at least as far as he knew) thus he was _not_ going to put them at risk. No one should be able to make a connection between them and the liberating of the sacred bones. Not even the ones who would help him with said liberation. Guderian knew, of course, but his Pride was now under Tyr’s protection, so he would keep silent.

That was the reason why Tyr, instead of visiting his family, went straight to the appointed meeting place: a large, dimly lit tavern in the Mandau area of the planet, owned by the local Mandau Matriarch, no less. The tavern had several back rooms, specifically for such… sensitive meetings, as the Mandau were a Pride specialized as mercenaries and slavers, and they paid a fat percentage of their incomes to the Matriarch. They were an inferior, treacherous bunch, but also numerous and well organized... and not too bright. A combination that was perfect for Tyr’s purpose.

Guderian was already waiting for him, in the company of a tall, well-built, blond Orca male and two smaller but obviously strong men, whose head was shaved clean in Mandau fashion and who wore neatly trimmed black goatees.

“My second in command, Sigurd Cree,” Guderian introduced the Orca male, then he nodded towards the two mercenaries. “Kiyama Osman and Hafiz Ahmadi – the best men for the job you’d find. Gentlemen, this is Barabas Jericho, our employer.”

Tyr nodded casually, hiding his surprise that Freya’s brother would volunteer for this mission. Usually, when Guderian was abroad, Sigurd would remain at home and keep things running for him. He was a very capable man who had _not_ earned his position just because his other sister, Sigrun, was Guderian’s Second Wife. But Tyr guessed that Deborah, Guderian’s First, was also fully capable of keeping everything under control.

“How many people have you brought?” he asked.

“I’ve got four ships,” Guderian replied. “Enough to create a convincing distraction. All you have to do is slip in and get what you need.”

“What sort of ships?” Tyr asked.

“Goruda-class fighters,” Guderian said. “The same sort the Dragans use. That should be… distracting enough, I hope.”

“So do I,” Tyr said. Four Goruda-class fighters meant that Guderian had at least twelve combatants (including himself) who could go down to the planet and help, should the need arise. “And what about you?” he turned to the Mandau mercenaries. “I’ll need at least six people down on the planet for my plan to work.”

“I have the men,” the one named Kiyama said. “But which planet? And how are we supposed to get there?”

“On my ship,” Tyr answered. “I came with an upgraded freighter. It’s a harmless-looking vessel. No one will suspect our goal.”

“Which is?” Kiyama asked. “And the planet?”

“Enga’s Redoubt,” Tyr said simply. “We are going to steal the Progenitor’s bones.”

Guderian, who had known about the plan, remained completely unfazed. Sigurd and the Mandau mercenaries, however, stared at Tyr with their eyes glassed over.

“You are insane,” Freya’s brother finally said.

“I agree,” Kiyama shook his head. “What in the Known Worlds do you want with the bones?”

“Ransom them back to the Drago-Kazov, what else?” Tyr shrugged. “They would pay any demanded sum to get them back.”

“Or they would rather kill anyone who’d demand it,” Kiyama pointed out.

Tyr glared at him with open disgust. “That’s the best you were able to find?” he asked Guderian. The Orca shrugged.

“I apologize for their inferiority. In the short time you gave me, it was near impossible to track down anyone with real class.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Tyr commented. “Now that they know of my plan, I’ll either have to take them, regardless of their inferiority, or kill them, so that they won’t be able to betray us.”

“I’d vote for the second solution,” Guderian said mildly.

“So would I,” Tyr agreed amiably. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to find anything better. I’m on a tight schedule here. We can always kill them afterwards.”

“Hey!” Kiyama looked properly insulted. “We can pull any con you name! You want the bones? We get you the bones. But you’ll have to up our payment, considering the risks we are taking with this one.”

“That is negotiable,” Tyr said, displaying a detailed map of Dawkinstown, the chief city of Enga’s Redoubt, the Drago-Kazov homeworld, and zoomed in on _The Ancestor’s Square_ , where the mausoleum of Drago Museveni had stood for the last twenty years. “Now, look at this plan. We won’t have a second try on this, and if we screw up, I’ll still have the time to kill you and hang your corpses by your intestines on the mausoleum’s main gate. There are security cameras, positioned here… here… here… and here. Probably even more, but these are the ones we know about for sure. We should count on four dozen guards, at the very least. These are the known positions…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Cuchulain Nez-Perce, out of Orgeluse by Cathbad, Field Marshal of the united fleet of Drago-Kazov Pride, was sitting in his office aboard his flagship, the _Fist of Revenge_ , currently in geosynchron orbit above Acheron, and he was fuming silently. He had proved his genetic value countless times. He had doubled the Drago-Kazov fleet in those two years under his command and led it from victory to victory, _including_ the campaign against Than colonies in the Orion arm. And yet Messallina, that old hag of a Jaguar Matriarch, chose to marry off Beatricea to Cuatemoc, his greatest adversary.

A lean blond of excellent genetic heritage and a keen intelligence rare among his Pride in these days, Cuchulain had already acquired six wives from the best clans. He respected all six of them highly – and they had provided him with fourteen fine children already – but his love for Beatricea Bolivar had burned in him with an all-consuming fire, ever since he first met the duchess a year ago on Strindberg’s World, during the Pride negotiations.

As a rule, Nietzscheans didn’t fall in love the same way _kludge_ s did. But if it happened to them, they became unpredictable and reacted badly to their own weakness. Cuchulain never thought such an undesirable thing would happen to him. His control had always been strong, he had always been able to see everything as a part of the great Nietzschean scheme of survival – his own, that of his clan and that of his Pride.

Until he met Beatricea, that is. After the rather untimely death of the old Jaguar Archduke, Chlodvig Bolivar, his ambitious son, the chief warlord of he Pride and now its leader, Charlemagne, had begun to look out for powerful allies against Sabra Pride. Naturally, his first choice had been the strongest known Pride, the Drago-Kazov, and he offered to marry off one of his sisters to a respected Drago-Kazov leader.

Cuchulain himself was one of the logical choices, of course. After all, he came from one of the very few families that could track their bloodlines back to those first five thousand or so genetically enhanced children born on Fountainhead, thank to Dr. Paul Museveni’s dream and his tireless work. To the very first generation of the _homo sapiens invictus_.

Unfortunately, so was Cuatemoc, that decadent fool, and regardless of the fact that Beatricea seemed to favour Cuchulain and mirror his desire, political reality interfered. Cuchulain’s family, old and respectable as it was, had no real influence in Pride politics, having become almost extinct in the Nietzschean civil war. So he had to make his own glory, and even though he succeeded supremely, he could not win against the wealth and political influence of Cuatemoc’s family.

He did have considerable support from the military, but so did Cuatemoc. And Cuatemoc had considerable _political_ support in the Council of Clan Alphas from his decadent pals. So Beatricea had been given to Cuatemoc as a pawn on the chessboard of Pride politics, leaving Cuchulain mad with anger and desire.

He was not willing to give up Beatricea, oh no! But it would take a great deal of effort to secure her for himself, and he had to plan everything very carefully. Setting up an ambush that would kill Cuatemoc and making it look like an accident would be difficult enough in itself, but persuading both Pride Matriarchs to let him take a claim to her… that was near impossible. Even though Beatricea had been sending him subtle signs that she’d be agreeable with a union between them.

Cuchulain had to work on two levels in this. Firstly, he had to prove himself again spectacularly, so that he would catch the eye of the Jaguar Matriarch. Secondly, he had to get rid of Cuatemoc in a convincing manner, and preferably before he managed to get Beatricea with child. Of course, he could eliminate Cuatemoc’s spawn later, but even the most willing female could become reluctant to marry the man who’s just killed her newborn child. With any other woman, he wouldn’t care as long as he got his wish. But he not only burned for Beatricea, he also loved her too much to cause her that sort of trauma, as long as there were other ways.

His musings were interrupted by his aide and spymaster, Victor Rustaveli – a clever and very capable Beta whom he had chosen from the lower ranks because of the man’s ruthless intelligence. And although the Drago-Kazov didn’t practice the ancient custom of the Omega oath anymore – a fact that Cuchulain regretted sometimes – Victor would do literally _anything_ Cuchulain wanted from him.

“Have you found him?” the field marshal asked, and the slender, dark-haired, olive-skinned Beta nodded.

“The rumours have been confirmed, my Lord. Anasazi isn’t an impostor. He is the real item.”

“Is that one hundred per cent sure?” Cuchulain’s eyes narrowed. _That_ would open possibilities undreamt of for decades.

Victor nodded. “Yes, my Lord. According to my sources on Centauris A, the proof has been shown. The genetic match is almost complete.”

“ _Almost_ complete?” Cuchulain repeated. Victor shrugged.

“Apparently, there are some very slight divergences.”

“True ones or artificial ones?” Cuchulain asked. Victor shrugged again.

“Hard to tell. All I know is that Ezekial hurriedly married off Mikaelan to the Kodiak… and rumours say that Abigail requested a child from Anasazi as well.”

“Abigail?” Cuchulain’s eyes widened in surprise. “That must mean something. She only mingles herself with the best. If she was eager to breed with a prideless Alpha… the match must be _very_ close indeed.”

“True enough,” Victor paused for a moment. “Of course, being the last member of an extinct Pride, a man might want to conceal his genetic identity, for safety reasons. Especially if he _is_ the real item.”

“Which is still not proved… not entirely,” Cuchulain emphasized, and Victor nodded.

“True again. But whether he is the real item or just a really close match, we have him tracked down now. The question is… what are you doing with this knowledge?”

“I’ll have to think about it very carefully,” Cuchulain answered slowly. “Keep track of him. As he is aboard the _Andromeda Ascendant_ permanently, it shouldn’t be difficult now.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” Victor keyed a few notes into his time planer. “Anything else?”

“Not right now. Be prepared. And send in Quechua on your way out.”

Waiting for his lover to arrive, Cuchulain considered the importance of the news he had just learned. As his father had often told him – carefully checking first that no one else could hear them – the annihilation of Kodiak Pride, especially that of the ruling family, had been the worst tactical mistake the Drago-Kazov leaders could have made twenty-two years ago. Small and rather insignificant Kodiak Pride might have been from the purely militaristic point of view, they had harvested the practically undiluted genetic material of the Progenitor, having been formed from the original Pride Museveni, after Drago had broken ties with them and formed an alliance with the Kazov clan.

These were the two oldest clans, genetically the closest ones to Drago himself. With massacring the Anasazi clan, the Drago-Kazov limited the chances of the Second Coming of the Progenitor to practically nothing. No other Pride had the necessary genetic resources to a perfect match. Which might have been the exact plan, orchestrated by Ce-Acatl, Cuatemoc’s father. To eliminate the very possibility of the Second Coming and seize leadership by sheer force.

Personally, Cuchulain disagreed with that, and not only because of the old rivalry between their clans. Nietzscheans – both individuals and entire clans or Prides – were much too competitive and aggressive to be united by force. The ongoing blood feud between the Sabra and the Jaguar was proof enough for that. They needed a messianistic figure that they could follow – who was the real power behind that pawn, that was another question entirely. The Drago-Kazov should have spared the ruling clan of the Kodiak and keep its members under lock as breeding material. That way, the precious genes would have been saved and the Progenitor, should he ever return, controlled by the Drago-Kazov.

Well, that couldn’t be helped now. Due to the stupidity of Ce-Acatl and his idiotic allies, they now only had Tyr Anasazi with that precious heritage, and Cuchulain was now facing the unusual problem of protecting a mortal enemy for the sake of their entire people – against his own Pride, if necessary. And ultimately, it was all Cuatemoc’s fault. Well, actually it was Ce-Acatl’s, but Cuchulain could be bothered by such technicalities while trying to figure out how to get his hands on one of the most feared mercenaries and professional assassins without either one of them getting killed in the process.

Quechua’s arrival provided a welcome distraction from his concerns. She was a formidable female, with short-cropped blond hair and impressive arm muscles – plus, she was a first class combat pilot. Some would say it was a shame that she couldn’t breed, but Quechua saw that differently. She didn’t want to waste her time at home, pregnant and bored – she was completely happy with being a combat pilot; a chance she’d never have got, had she been fertile. She was an anomaly among her own people, but a pleasant and content one.

According to classical Nietzschean philosophy, mates were only supposed to lie together when they intended to produce progeny. Sexual gratification, while considered an added bonus, was also seen as irrelevant. Of course, no Nietzschean was supposed to fall in love with a woman who had been claimed by another male, either. But Cuchulain had come to find the orthodox teachings outdated, especially since the ancient custom of male bondmates was no longer practiced. So what if his current lover – bedmate would have been a better world for their relationship, as there was no love whatsoever between them – was unable to breed? She was gorgeous and valiant and highly skilled, and he didn’t require children from her. All he needed – all they both needed – was the short relief from constant warfare they could find in each other’s arms.

She had no mate. His wives were on the homeworld, raising his children. Beatricea was still out of his reach, a goal barely visible at his horizon. Why should he deny himself that relief?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The mausoleum of Drago Museveni was a terraced building of blood-red stone, built on seven levels in the likeness of an ancient Mayan pyramid… aside from the fact that it lacked the characteristic outer staircase, of course. And that the airy hall on the upper level, with its roof held by dark columns, wasn’t a temple for human sacrifice but a shrine in which the most sacred – well, actually the only one – Nietzschean icon was kept. For a race that had declared God dead and religion irrelevant millennia ago, Nietzschean culture had certainly developed an impressive ersatz religion by worshipping the Progenitor’s bones.

Or that was how outsiders would have seen it anyway. For a Nietzschean, Drago’s bones represented their origins and the uniqueness of their race as well as its future. Their aggression and competitiveness had brought the Nietzschean race to the verge of utter annihilation by the hands of their fellow Nietzscheans several times during their existence. They needed a symbol to unite them, and prohibit that mutual annihilation. In a sense, Drago’s bones were the continuing future of the Nietzschean race.

Wearing a turban and wrapping a length of dark blue cotton over his hair and across the lower part of his face in the fashion of the Tuareg, the most isolationist cadet branch of Desert Fox Pride, which left only his eyes exposed, Tyr strode towards the main entrance of the mausoleum with the other pilgrims. This was a low-traffic time for the mausoleum, in-between any important Nietzschean festivals, which was the exact reason why he had chosen it. He found ironic that this mausoleum seemed to be the exact copy of the original one tat once had stood on the Kodiak homeworld – specifically designed to make both entrance and exit difficult, with the corridors meandering from the main gate up to the seventh level, where the sanctum stood and the remains were kept.

The mausoleum itself was guarded at all times, of course, but the area around it was not as heavily secured. There was no real need for that, as _The Ancestor’s Square_ was surrounded by high walls, made of the same blood-red stone, making a forced entry or an escape almost impossible. _Unless_ one landed with a ship directly on top of the sanctum, that is. Which was exactly what Tyr had planned. Well, almost. As the sacred hall of Drago’s bones would most likely not be able to carry the weight of a slipstream-capable ship, the _Klondike Trail_ was supposed to go into floating mode so close above it that Tyr could climb in, together with his precious cargo. That was the plan, anyway.

It was a tricky piece of autopilot programming, but after running several dozen simulations with Harper’s help (who had still no idea _what_ he had been helping with) Tyr was reasonably certain that he’d done a good enough job. Besides, tricky as it might be, the solution offered a better chance for success than fighting themselves through six troops of guards on the ground level, trying to break through the automated security doors that would drop once the alarm had been sounded, and then try to make their way back down with the bones.

Timing was the key issue here. Kiyama’s men were supposed to enter the pyramid through the two side doors at the same time as Tyr passed the main gate. By coming upwards, they had to seal each level behind themselves (El-Hakim’s intel network had provided the override codes to every lock in the building), cutting off the guards sufficiently. Ideally, when they reached the sanctum itself, there shouldn’t be anyone else but them and a few pilgrims. But Tyr knew from experience that things rarely worked out in an ideal fashion.

He checked the timer fastened to his bracers. He had ten minutes until Guderian’s people started the fake attack with taking out the satellite in geosynchron orbit above Dawkinstown over the capitol, thus drawing the patrol ships away to make room for the _Klondike Trail_. Passing by the guards’ rooms, he scanned them briefly. Four dozen guards on the ground level, heavily armed, just as Nathaniel’s intel had told. Hopefully, Kiyama, Hafiz and the others would keep the schedule. Tyr had his doubts, but he couldn’t do anything else than following the plan.

He barely reached the top level with the Ancestor’s Hall on it when the alarm sirens went off. Guards came up running, at least two dozens of them, probably even more, and the loudspeakers ordered everyone to leave the building. Tyr stepped into the shadows of the columns, letting the other pilgrims make a well-ordered retreat. Where were those Mandau idiots? This was not the time to make mistakes. He glanced skywards and saw the _Klondike Trail_ hovering above, sinking slowly towards the mausoleum. Of Kiyama and his men was still no sign.

Tyr suppressed a curse, and, grabbing the force lance he’d brought from the Andromeda, shot three of the guards square in the chest. Then he rolled away from the firing line and shot two more in the back. But firepower was still more than unbalanced, and unless those incapable fools arrived soon, he’d join his Progenitor in the grave.

Finally, the multiple sounds of gauss rifles joined the battle noise. The guards were distracted and ran to pick up the fight with the new attackers. Tyr used the distraction to run up to the crate of Drago Museveni. It was surprisingly small, considering that it harboured the remains of the first fully enhanced Nietzschean, and it was open. A plexiglass cover, sealed hermetically, protected what for a neutral viewer would be a withered and shrunk corpse.

That and the fact that the crate had a self-destruct system built into it. Which needed to be deactivated and the crate unlocked before he could move it. Giving the sacred bones a cursory glance, Tyr pushed the hidden button designed to close the outer lid and unlock the casket from its podest. The codes to unlock the crate were set into his mind; he’d learned them in his earliest childhood, and he knew they couldn’t be changed, or else the self-destruction sequence would start automatically. They couldn’t be changed by anyone else but a member of his own family, that is, as they were keyed to their genetic stamp.

In a flash of memory, he could see his baby sister being dragged to the mausoleum, back at the time of the Dragan attack against their homeworld, to use her to unlock the crate, and he gritted his teeth. But this was not the time to mourn. He had to hurry. Fortunately, he also remembered his father instructing him what to do in a case of emergency, should the bones ever be moved.

“Initiating unlocking sequence,” the artificial voice of the container said. “Provide scan.” Tyr touched the appropriate scanner spot. “Authorisation coded to user DNA. Provide voice code.”

“Retribution,” Tyr said grimly.

“Voice code authorized,” The container’s computer said. “Seal physical lock and remove physical key.”

Tyr removed the key card from its slot and put it into one of his bracers. The crate was now re-keyed to his personal DNA and would self-destruct if anyone else tried to open it. Then he slid into the harness ridged to the crate and lifted it. It was heavy, but he could carry it on his back _and_ fight to a certain extent, nevertheless.

The guards were closing up, fighting with Kiyama’s people like berserkers. Kiyama and his men were forced to retreat, and not in the right direction. The window of opportunity was losing quickly. Tyr hesitated for a moment – leaving his hired guns behind would be… unfortunate, but he didn’t really have any other choice. He couldn’t risk getting caught, and he wouldn’t get any other chance to retrieve what was his by right. Not in this life. And no Nietzschean expected to have another one.

With a final glance at the cornered Mandau thugs, he climbed to the roof of the shrine and with considerable effort, he tossed the crate rather unceremoniously through the open landing door of the _Klondike Trail_. Then he grabbed the sides of the hatch and pushed himself up as well, scrambling to his feet and closing the door as soon as he was in. Weapons fire increased below him, bouncing off the ship’s hull harmlessly. His left shoulder was inflamed with pain, caused by a stray shot he couldn’t even remember having caught. He stumbled into the cockpit and punched in the sequence for a steep start. Only when he’d cleared the atmosphere did he find the time to fasten the harness of the pilot’s chair.

Now that he was in relative safety, he could let his mind focus on getting off the planet in one piece. This stunt was still far from being over. In fact, it had only begun. He still wasn't out of danger. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he pulled up the pre-programmed patterns of several evasive maneuvers, just in case.

Switching to aft scanners, he detected a ship on his tail. Damn, it seemed that the Dragans had not bought Guderian’s diversions – or they had more patrol ships than the intel would say. Tyr aimed for the now-abandoned Kodiak homeworld, hoping that the asteroid would shield him from his pursuers, but his maneuver wasn’t quick enough. The _Klondike Trail_ was hit and rocked violently. Tyr swore under his breath as the sensors detected two more ships closing up. He wasn't sure he could outrun them or not after the hit the _Klondike Trail_ had just taken. Plus he had the disadvantage to fly a ship that he didn’t know too well.

He caught another blast, this time from one of the other ships. He keyed in a particularly fancy pattern, diving under the first ship, shooting the second one with his aft guns and coming around to face the third one.

They fired simultaneously, and they were both hit. The third Dragan ship floated dead in space, and the second one had apparently been disabled as well. Unfortunately, that still left the first one unharmed and full charged. It fired, but the now familiar impact of missiles was missing this time. Instead, some sort of electrical charge went through all the ship’s systems, bathing the inside of the cockpit in eerie blue-white light.

Then everything went black.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
On the command deck of the _Andromeda Ascendant_ , captains Dylan Hunt and Beka Valentine were having a conversation. A rather agitated one, concerning said ship’s currently missing Nietzschean fire control officer. Members of their crew, who were doing their usual duty on the deck, pretended they weren’t listening. It wasn’t a very convincing act, as both Rev Bem’s ears and Radiance of Wisdom’s antennae were twitching with excited curiosity.

“Anything?” Beka asked impatiently. It wasn’t entirely clear whether she was addressing Dylan or the Sapphire Than scientist who was currently monitoring communications. Aside from performing routine scans, that is.

“Not yet,” the Than replied calmly, not turning her main attention away from the comm system. Her hive leader was expecting a message from Asampa, after all.

“Damn that Nietzschean!” Beta scowled. “If he stole my ship, I’ll segregate every single one of his oh-so-precious genes, I swear!”

“Wasn’t he just going to fetch that Nietzschean doctor from El Dorado Drift?” Rev Bem asked placidly.

“That’s what he _said_ ,” Beka answered. “Which doesn’t mind that it is also what he is _doing_.”

“True,” the Magog admitted. Everyone knew Nietzscheans were completely untrustworthy. They always did – or said – whatever served their interests best. “On the other hand, Nietzscheans _do_ love their children more than anything else. In this particular case I think we should give Tyr the benefit of doubt and consider the possibility that he was actually telling the truth.”

“In which case I feel entitled to be a little worried about him,” Dylan said. “Had he just gone to El Dorado and back, he should have returned already. Either he lied to us, or he is in trouble. In either case, we should look for him.”

“Before he tells the wrong persons the wrong thing just to ‘save his own hide’ as Mr. Harper would phrase it?” the Than asked, clearly amused. Dylan nodded.

“Something like that, yeah. Any suggestions?”

“Hmmm…” Beka thought about it for a moment. “Okay, you know, before he left, I did warn him that the _Maru_ had a bad plasma regulator. If he was planning on doing any tricky maneuvering, he would have had to fix it.”

“We should check all the local drifts,” Dylan said. “Maybe he tried to get a replacement somewhere.”

“Yeah,” that’s a good idea,” Beka agreed. Or a start, anyway. I’ll try to talk to Freya – not that it’d bring much. But it’s worth a try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Cuchulain’s appearance: personally, I always regretted that we didn’t get to see him more. He was wonderfully arrogant, ruthless and highly capable – the ultimate Nietzschean, if we want to put it that way. I’d have liked to see him and Tyr clash more often, as he was a lot more interesting character than boring Cuatemoc or that ridiculous William Ataturk. Besides, I always wanted to see Charlemagne Bolivar’s famous sisters, too.
> 
> Victor Rustaveli is, of course, the Drago-Kazov spy disguised as human from the 2nd Season finale _The Tunnel at the End of the Light_. I named him after the great Armenian poet. As Museveni is an Armenian name, too, I thought Niets would choose more names of the same kind. I modelled Drago’s mausoleum after the Lenin Mausoleum in Moscow – for the simple reason that it gave me a ground plan to work with.
> 
> Some of the Nietzschean history and customs might not be a hundred per cent canonical here. I used the essay _Nietzschean History_ by Telemachus Rhade ( not the character, obviously), posted to Lady Maigrey’s Andromeda discussion board as the basis for them as well as the novel _Destruction of Illusions_ by Keith R.A. DeCandido.


	5. The Fisher King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even after re-watching the episode several times, I couldn’t quite decide if Yvaine was living on the shore of a lake or that of a river. Finally, I chose the river, despite the title of this story. I might be wrong, though – not that it would be of importance for the plot itself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
 **CHAPTER 3 – THE FISHER KING**

Releasing Quechua so that she could have some rest before her next duty shift would start – there was no need to exhaust his combatants in a peaceful situation – Cuchulain took a shower and returned to his careful plotting and planning. Now that he had the hard proof that someone from the Progenitor’s bloodline had indeed survived the massacre on the Kodiak homeworld, he had to work out a plan to use this fact to his advantage. That left him with exactly two possibilities: to capture Anasazi and keep him in a dungeon to which no one else had access – or to form an alliance with him.

None of these possibilities looked very promising.

Anasazi’s reputation had already been impressive when he still had been a sole mercenary, but now the Kodiak had the powerful Sabra branch on Centauris A to watch his back. Not to mention that he had somehow managed to form an alliance with Orca Pride. The same Orca Pride whose homeworld he had practically blown out from under their fleet, as retribution for taking part in the massacre of the Kodiak. And rumours spoke of allies on the planet Haukin Vora as well. No one knew who exactly those allies were, but they definitely _did_ exist. It seemed that Anasazi would work on his own emergence as the fourth main power factor in Nietzschean society. He was still far from it, but he seemed determined… and surprisingly successful, so far. Not to mention having the last fully functional High Guard warship at his disposal.

Granted, technically the ship belonged to that three hundred year old fossil, Dylan Hunt… due to the ship’s AI being still functional. But Cuchulain had no doubt that Anasazi could get rid of the _kludge_ captain any time he wanted. A ship’s AI could be erased and reprogrammed. There were several ways to do that – Cuchulain himself knew at least two such methods. Which could only mean that leaving Hunt alive to continue his inane quest to restore the Commonwealth served Anasazi’s purposes better than seizing the ship right away. For the time being, anyway.

Cuchulain would have _loved_ to know what those purposes were. If they would serve to his own advantage. Would an alliance with Anasazi help him to reach his goals – mostly to eliminate Cuatemoc, gain his position in the Council of Clan Alphas and secure Beatricea for himself – or cause his utter defeat and ultimate fall from grace?

At the moment, allying himself with the Kodiak openly was out of question, of course. Anasazi was still way too insignificant a factor in the great, ill-concealed power struggle for supreme leadership in Nietzschean society. Unless... unless the Kodiak was more than just a really close match. But even then, Cuchulain doubted that the most powerful and influential Clan Alphas of his own Pride, the sons of those who had ordered the annihilation of the Kodiak in the first place, would be willing to yield to the reborn Progenitor. They’ve grown too used to be the main factor in that struggle.

After the massacre on his people, it was also doubtful that Anasazi himself would be willing to form an alliance with the Drago-Kazov. Not without a very good reason, at least. And not without the ones responsible for the massacre dying impossible deaths first. Which would be fine with Cuchulain, as said responsible ones were Cuatemoc’s clan and their closest allies. Personally, Cuchulain wouldn’t care if a Pride, grown overconfident and careless in its illusion of safety, was wiped out as a result of its folly. But the last survivor of the ruling clan of this particular Pride was his most secure way to power, therefore this person had to be protected.

Once again, Victor’s arrival interrupted his musings.

“My Lord,” the aide said, his eyes bright with excitement, “a planetwide alert has just been called on the homeworld. The Home Guard is mobilizing its entire fleet.”

The Home Guard being the planetary defences commanded by Cuatemoc, this piqued Cuchulain’s immediate interest.

“What happened?” he asked.

Victor shook his head in amazement. “Apparently, someone has stolen the Progenitor’s bones.”

Cuchulain stiffened. “That’s impossible. The crate would self-destruct if someone tampered with the security locks. Unless, of course…”

“Unless that someone had the right genetic stamp,” Victor finished for him. Cuchulain grinned.

“Exactly. How old is this news?”

“Barely nine minutes, my Lord. It seems that some hired guns from Mandau Pride have been caught. They were working for someone called Barabas Jericho, or so they admitted before their execution. But I think…”

“Anasazi,” Cuchulain nodded, thoroughly impressed. “That was neat work. I wonder, though, how he managed to sneak by the patrol ships. The defence troops are usually rather efficient.”

“Well, someone shot the satellite over the capitol to pieces just minutes before he escaped,” Victor shrugged. “It seems a well-orchestrated action. He must have had help.”

“Let me guess,” Cuchulain pretended to think hard, but his eyes twinkled in amusement. “A couple of Goruda-class fighters, without a Pride symbol.”

“Precisely,” Victor laughed, and then he guessed. “Mandau?”

Cuchulain shook his head. “They are too untrustworthy. I’d say Orca. They used be pirates, and rather successful ones. That makes them experts in such hit-and-run actions. Has the… thief been caught?” He hoped not. Getting caught would be a disappointment – it would prove Anasazi’s inferiority. And it would strengthen Cuatemoc’s position, which would be even more dissatisfying.

“No,” Victor’s grin grew from ear to ear. “Those incapable fools managed to hit his ship with a nanobot charge and still lose him.”

“He won’t get far, though,” Cuchulain said with a frown. “The attack nanobots will disable both his ship and his own nervous system. Where was he hit?”

“Above the capitol, just outside the atmosphere.”

“I guess he did not crash-land on the homeworld?”

“Apparently not. A satellite sweep has been ordered across the entire system. So far no results.”

“That leaves two places where he could land,” Cuchulain said thoughtfully. “Either the Kodiak asteroid, or Midden. I wonder which one he’ll choose.”

“Do you want to interfere?” Victor asked. Cuchulain shook his head.

“That’s a risk I cannot afford to take. But… if you could find those unknown fighters, you may point them into the right direction.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He came to with a groan, lifting his heavy lids with great effort. He found himself fastened to a seat, bulkheads full of instruments, some of them dead, some of them still blinking, encircling him. How did he get here? And where in the Universe was _here_? He tried to look around, but the sharp pain in his temples stopped him mid-movement. He groaned again.

“Milord. I didn't realize... I came to see if you needed help.”

The voice of the woman was unfamiliar but pleasantly gentle. Who was she? He looked up with some effort and saw a friendly but plain face leaning over him. She had short, brown hair, wise eyes that belied her age and a slightly long nose. But why did she say “milord” to him? And why did she bow her head servilely while speaking?

“Where am I?” he asked uncertainly. The woman looked at him in surprise.

“You're on Midden, milord. This is Melanzey Inlet. And I'm Yvaine Gwennens-daughter.”

None of those names meant anything to him. He needed a different approach to figure out what was happening.

“All right,” he sighed. “ I have one more question: Who am I?”

The woman named Yvaine shrugged. “I was hoping you’ll tell me that, milord.”

“Afraid not. I can’t even remember my name,” he tried to get out of his seat but slumped back with a groan. “Damn headache.”

“Let me help you, milord,” Yvaine unfastened the seatbelt and helped him getting to his feet.

Despite her seemingly fragile frame, she managed to support him quite efficiently. The calluses on her small hands spoke of someone who was used to hard work. He wondered what kind of work that might be.

They cleared the ship, and he blinked in the golden sunshine. Whatever – or wherever – this Midden might be, it was a beautiful place. A peaceful-seeming, rustic area near a large, deep blue body of water – a lake or a very broad river, he couldn’t decide at the moment. His ship had crashed in a wooded area near the water and was surrounded by tall, green trees from the other side. Hills or low mountains rose beyond the woods, and the water – it was a river, he realized now, the water moved slowly, unhurriedly – seemed to stretch forever.

“You can rest in my house, milord,” the woman offered, gesturing with her free hand towards a small cabin that sat on the edge of the river, not particularly near their position, but still clearly visible. He could see smoke curling from the chimney and nets drying in the sun. On the dock, an adolescent boy sat, his feet dangling over the edge, pretending to repair a net. They apparently lived from fishing and from the dried and smoked fish they sold on the market.

“Your son?” he asked. Yvaine shrugged.

“In a manner. Come now, milord, you need to rest.”

Seeing their approach, the boy abandoned his work – or the pretence of it – with a scowl and vanished behind the house.

“Breyon is still very young,” Yvaine said apologetically. “Please forgive his lack of manners. Boys of that age are… difficult sometimes. Are you in need of anything, milord?”

He nodded slowly, watching her with interest. She looked slim, but she had strength in her – not the strength of an oak, but the deceiving one of the willow that survived by bending rather than by resistance.

“Water,” he said; his throat was so dry it almost hurt.

She guided him into the house – it was a wooden cabin, but surprisingly airy, and provided a pleasant, shadowy shelter from the burning sun and the smell of smoked fish – and offered him a clay cup of clean water. He watched her laying he table. She wore simply clothes of rough, earth-brown wool or linen: a sleeveless waistcoat that was laced in the front; a long skirt that was open on both sides almost to her hips, so that she could move around freely, and slippers on her bare feet. No jewellery, no adornments whatsoever. The inside of the house was similarly simple and functional. Apparently, she had lived here long enough to shape this place to her tastes.

He looked down on himself, seeking out any sign of identity, but the leather pants and the black mesh vest were no help. The bracers and forearm spikes identified him as a Nietzschean, but that was something he’d known already.

“Do you have enough food?” he asked suddenly. He needed nourishment to keep his strength, so that his nanobots could repair whatever damage he had suffered.

“Oh, there’s plenty to eat,” she replied lightly, “as long as you like fish, that is. But we also grow a few vegetables up on the hillside.” She trailed off, a little uncertainly. “Do Nietzscheans eat vegetables?”

The question surprised him – what did she think his people lived on? Raw meat? “We can eat virtually anything, as long as it is organic,” he replied, looking into his now empty cup morosely. She came closer, a slight smile on her face.

“It’s a luck then that we have so much driftwood,” she said. He gave her a blank look, and she paled considerably. “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

He turned away in dismissal. “You’ve been very… hospitable.”

As he sat down on a wooden bench, images of himself flashed through his mind. He saw himself entering a room with a handheld weapon big enough to shoot a small ship to pieces. Sailing down on a rope from a high cliff. Fighting adversaries – Nietzscheans and non-Nietzscheans alike – hand-to-hand. Snapping the neck of a huge thug with casual ease...

He rubbed his forehead, and glancing up, he saw Yvaine’s worried eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You still can’t remember anything?”

He shrugged, turning his forearm and looking at the bone blades falted back against the bracers. “I know I’m a Nietzschean – and what that means. I can remember general facts and information, but my personal memories… I only have glimpses – disconnected images.”

“I’m sure it’s temporary,” Yvaine said. “Once I contact the Dragons, they’…”

He interrupted her. “ _Dragons_?” Was she insane?

“It’s a… nickname we have for your people,” she explained. “For the Drago-Kazov. Midden is one of their – _your_ – tributary worlds, milord.”

“Drago… Kazov,” he repeated; it sounded like a low grow, and she made an involuntary step backwards, frightened by the fury in his eyes. “You will tell them _nothing_.”

“But milord,” she protested, and he lost his temper. It was simply too much to deal with: the memory loss, the unknown environment, being helpless and exposed… everything.

“Do what I say!” he shouted.

There was fear in her eyes, and he could smell the fear of the boy, too, who had just entered the house behind him. He forced himself to calm down. There was no need to alienate the people who were willing to help. Even if they were only _kludge_ s. It was better to offer an explanation – such as he was able to give.

“Nietzschean family relations are… complicated,” he said, almost apologetically. “Until I have my proper wits about me, I prefer to remain anonymous.”

“Of course, milord,” that guarded, brittle smile was back on her face; such a brave little _kludge_ she was, facing an unknown, irate Nietzschean in her own house and still keeping her dignity. “Please… make yourself comfortable, I… I have to tend to my nets.”

He looked after her as she fled the house, looking directly into the blue eyes of the teenaged boy whom she called Breyon. Those eyes were dark with fear and hatred.

That was how the killing had always begun. With fear and hatred.

He shook his head and turned away with a defeated sigh.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They were walking along the shore, speaking in low voices – they probably didn’t know that he could hear them from this far. Slumped against the outer wall of the house, he listened to the boy’s passionate anger and Yvaine’s patient answers. She was truly wise beyond her age. She had probably seen too much, suffered too much to take any more risks. But the boy… frightened and angry at the same time, weak but stubbornly resistant… Where had he seen a boy like this one? The face, the voice were unfamiliar, but the attitude… He was sure he had known someone like the boy once. Someone who had hated his entire race enough to kill thousands of Nietzscheans when given the chance, but still willing to help _him_ – whoever he was in his real life.

He watched the _kludge_ woman who was now wearing a simple brown cloak against the cold breeze, holding it together with a hand on her throat. Again, he had to think of a willow. Yvaine had survived this long by not resisting the storm but bending low and letting it pass. There was great wisdom in this – the wisdom of slaves who survived while their masters were slain. The boy would better learn it, before it was too late.

Of course, one had to be a _kludge_ to choose that particular way of survival – and not always voluntarily, he guessed. But he… he was a Nietzschean, with an irresistible urge to destroy in the face of adversity, rather than to bow and endure. Death and life resided in him – in all of his people, of that he was sure – in equal measure. Their way of thinking was closer to that of the tundra wolves of Lynus than that of ordinary humans, despite their shared origins.

He seemed to remember someone talking to him about this. The deep voice came from a far-away place of his heart. Perhaps it belonged to his father, whom he could not remember.

 _Judge not_ , the inner voice told him. _Allow rather to each live thing its will until it becomes an impediment to your own. Then, think not. Only destroy it utterly._ (1)

It seemed to him that this particular teaching was the essence of being Nietzschean. Such utter pragmatism… but also so much wisdom. The killer instinct all beings of human origins shared was undiluted in Nietzscheans, unsuppressed, made to a philosophy, to their very way of life. It was genetically coded into them. It wasn’t something they would question. It worked to their advantage, after all.

But Yvaine had been right when she’d said to Breyon that she couldn’t live her life like a Nietzschean. Her way was a different one – simpler, perhaps, to the naked eye, but it did demand its own bravery and ultimate pragmatism. She seemed to know that. Perhaps that was why she was still alive.

He wondered whether feeling a certain… admiration for her was a weakness, caused by his memory loss. She was nothing like the Nietzschean women for whom men competed endlessly. Those were strong, aggressive, self-confident… admirably so. She was calm and humble and had learned to live with her fear. They were fire, she was water. And yet he wondered if it would be she who endured longer.

She was a _kludge_ from a slave planet, plain, yet brave enough to seek out a crashed ship and help an unknown Nietzschean who could have turned out a slaver – or a psychopathic killer, as someone in his forgotten past liked to say. She was frightened and clearly in disadvantage, and yet she managed to keep her dignity.

What was there not to admire?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The holographic image of _Andromeda_ flickered into life in the middle of Tyr’s quarters.

“You’ve got an incoming message… approximately two days old,” she told Freya. “From someone named Sigurd Cree.”

“Oh?” Freya’s face was completely unreadable. “That is… unexpected.”

“Do you know the guy?” Harper, fixing something on the heating system popped up from behind the life support regulator console, his eyes bright with curiosity. Freya gave him an indulgent smile.

“Of course. Sigurd is my brother… one of my brothers,” she corrected herself.

“Really?” if possible, Harper’s hair bristled even more from excitement. “How many sibs do you have?”

“Only two,” Freya said. “Sigurd and a sister, Sigrun, who’s Guderian’s Second Wife. I’m the youngest.”

“That’s not much for an _Über_ … I mean, for a Niet…”

“We used to be sixteen,” Freya explained. “Four died as children, due to accidents and diseases, the rest fell in battle.”

“Battle?” Harper snorted. “I thought your people were pirates… bugging the bugs for half a century or whatnot.”

Freya gave him a superior eyebrow, suppressing a groan over the really bad pun. “And you think the Than wouldn’t fight back? They can be ferocious people, and enjoy killing about as much as we do.”

“Geez, thanks,” Harper pulled a face. “Just the mental image I needed. What was I thinking, hiring up on a ship with psychopathic _Über_ s, murderous bugs and a Magog aboard?”

“That," Freya said thoughtfully, “is a question I’ve asked a few times myself. For someone from Earth, it’s a rather… surprising decision.”

Harper rolled his eyes. “Lady, look around you! This ship is every engineer’s wet dream, even if it needs constant maintenance. Not to mention the creature comfort on board. After twenty years on Earth and five on the _Maru_ , this is as close to Nirvana as anyone could get.”

“Do you still have family… back on Earth?” Freya asked.

Harper’s face closed like a sealed hatch. “None that I know of. My parents were killed by the Dragan slavers when trying to protect my sister and me… and what for? The Dragans still took my sister, and we never heard of her again. She was only sixteen. I had two cousins who got impregnated by Magog. Their own parents had to put them down when the worms started to hatch in their bellies. I lived with the parents for a while, until they got killed by _Über_ s, too. When Beka took me away from Earth, I had one cousin left. That was almost six years ago. He’s probably dead, too.” He shrugged. “If you grew up on Earth, you learn not to get all too attached to anyone, ‘cuz you can never know how long they’ll be around.”

“I see,” Freya nodded slowly. “At least you’ve had your vengeance.”

“And what good did it to do to me?” Harper asked bitterly. “I only helped re-establish the status quo. Earth still is a slave planet, subjugated by Drago-Kazov jerkoffs and infested by Magog. My family is still dead. My immune system still sucks. What have I acquired by blowing up a few thousand Niet ships? Aside from becoming a mass murderer like they are? No offence intended.”

“None taken,” Freya said. “We are not ashamed for what we are… it’s in our nature. Nor should you – you only did what was necessary.”

“And failed,” Harper finished. Freya shook her head.

“I don’t think so. As much as I wish that our people had won the Battle of Witchhead, considering the bigger picture, you’ve saved hundreds of worlds from the same fate Earth has suffered.”

“That’s no comfort,” Harper muttered.

“Probably not,” Freya agreed, “but at least it is some justification, isn’t it? And in the end, it wasn’t you who made the decision – at least according to Tyr. He could have sabotaged your weapon and killed the purple girl who knew of his intentions. You do not carry the sole responsibility for what happened.”

“No,” Harper said dryly. “I’m the one who built the _weapon_.”

“True,” Freya admitted. “Few others would have been able to do that. You are a very useful crewmember… or ally.”

“Yeah,” Harper said sourly. “Useful. That’s what I am. That’s why people put up with me, not for my charming personality.”

“Stop that,” Freya said sternly. “Wallowing in self-pity is counterproductive. What’s done is done. You should concentrate on your future.”

“Which is? I don’t have any grand scheme for it, you know.”

“Oh, but you should. As much as you might like this place, your talent is wasted here.”

“Freya,” the holographic image of _Andromeda_ warned. “Are you trying to seduce my engineer?”

Freya grinned at her. “In a platonic sense, yes. Am I succeeding?”

The hologram grinned back. “Do you think I’m giving him up without a fight?”

“I hope not,” Freya replied. “This should be… interesting.”

“Ladies, ladies,” Harper intervened. “No need to fight over the Harper. There’s enough of me for both of you – besides, Tyr would rip my guts out with his bare hands if…”

“We didn’t mean _that_ sort of fight, Harper,” the hologram rolled its eyes. “Freya, do you want me to play the message of your brother?”

“I’d prefer some privacy for that,” Freya replied mildly. “Why don’t you download it to a data chip…?”

“… so that you can watch it through the independent system,” the hologram finished for her. “Very well; insert a chip into the comm system. You might need my decoding program, though. It’s heavily encrypted.”

“Hardly,” Freya said. “It must be the code only my siblings and I can break. Actually, it’s a language we created for fun as children, to keep our secrets from the adults. It’s way too illogical for any computer to figure out.”

“I bet I could break it if you allowed me to try,” Harper said, challenge glittering in his eyes. He practically lived for this sort of thing.

“Maybe you could,” Freya agreed. “You are a highly illogical individual.”

“Hey!” Harper was unsure whether he should feel flattered or insulted. Probably both. “I’d let you know that I’m a super genius!”

“And this is a _private_ message from my brother,” Freya said pointedly. “Besides, isn’t it time for your training with Amritray?”

“Some training,” Harper scowled. “I get thrown across Hydroponics, my limbs are twisted into unnatural angles, and even my bruises are bruised. I didn’t know training would include my death sentence, executed piece by piece.”

“Nonsense,” Freya said. “According to Amritray, you’re not bad at all, for someone who’s small, weak and untrained. She actually enjoys working out with you.”

“She’s not the one ending up hurting in places previously unknown to exist,” Harper scowled.

“Well, it’s up to you to change that,” Freya pointed out. “Stop seeing her as a pretty girl – focus on kicking her ass. Remember, she’s a Nietzschean, too. Use your anger towards our people to fight her. Be unpredictable.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Harper said accusingly. Freya nodded.

“But doable. How, do you think, did I mange to fight my older brothers who were much stronger than I was? Speaking of which… I’d really like to watch this message. _Now_.”

“All right, all right, I’m gone already,” Harper pouted a bit (he was extremely curious what Freya’s brother might want) but collected his tools and left.

“He’s amusing,” Arjuna, having lurked in the background silently all the time, commented with a quiet laughter. “I like him. It’s refreshing to have someone hate me for _being_ a Nietzschean, while my own people despise me for not being Nietzschean _enough_.”

“A feisty little thing,” Freya agreed. “I admit, at first I was bewildered what Tyr saw in him, beyond his engineering talents, but he does have his own charm. _Andromeda_ , privacy mode, if you please.”

“Privacy mode engaged,” the hologram flickered out of existence.

Freya took the data chip from the main system and inserted it into the independent terminal putting on the earphones. Sigurd’s handsome face appeared on the viewscreen, delivering a garbled message. Through the earphones Freya heard the real one.

“Mission accomplished. But we lost him over the planet. Looking for clues now. He’s probably crashed. I’ll contact you later.”

For a few endless minutes, she just sat there, thunderstruck. Then she took off the earphones and deleted the message. Just in case.

“Is something wrong?” Arjuna asked quietly.

“I’m afraid so,” Freya replied. The young warrior frowned.

“Can we do something? Freya shook her head.

“Sigurd and the others do what they can,” she said. “We’re not close enough to help. Besides, should the… the worst thing happen, _this_ child,” she laid a protective hand on her slightly bulging stomach, “must be protected at all costs.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
He was dreaming, and the dreams took him back to his childhood, to a past he could not remember. He was resting in the massive arms of his father, one huge hand holding his head like something very fragile and very dear, pressing his face to his father’s neck, and though he could not recall the face, he recognized the deep voice whispering into his ear; and the scent of mint leaves that, for some reason, was so achingly familiar. When he listened carefully, he could even make out the words that bass timbre was whispering.

 _You are the centre of the wheel. All things revolve about you. You are the only god; your strength the greatest strength; your arm the fellest arm. No value is greater than yours; no glory greater save that which will spring from you._ (2)

It was strange that while he could not remember his own name or the face of his father, he would remember these worlds so clearly… or the fact that they seemed to be part of a daily ritual in which his father had tuck him in – up to an age at which he, an adolescent boy, had fought such open signs of parental love with annoyance.

He drifted awake slowly, gradually, aching with the loss of something he could not remember. At the same time, he realized what had alerted him. Steps. Light steps of a small person had lured him from his sleep, in this strange house, in this unfamiliar bed. The person approaching him was trying to remain as silent as possible, but without much success. He could hear the agitated heartbeat and the shallow, rapid breathing.

Before the gun could have touched his temple, his hand sneaked out as if on its own and grabbed it. He rolled off the bed with one quick, fluid motion at least his _body_ seemed to remember, spinning his attacker around and taking the slim body in the vice-like grip of his arm, in a disturbing likeness of his father’s affectionate hug that was now beyond his reach. Only that his father never needed to aim a gun at his head, of course.

The slim frame and the blond hair revealed at once who his – rather clumsy – attacker was. He leaned over the boy’s shoulder and whispered.

“I'll teach you rule number one. You _never_ aim a gun at someone unless you intend to use it.”

The frightened blue eyes of the boy turned cold, filled with hatred. Even in the near-complete darkness of the house, the change was chillingly visible.

“Go ahead,” the child spat. “Shoot me. It doesn’t matter. Sooner or later, Midden will be free of you Dragon bastards.”

As if triggered by the boy’s angry words, more disconnected images flashed through his mind. He saw himself, standing on the command deck of a great ship, shouting in rage _My blood_ , then repeating the words “Drago-Kazov” like a curse.

He spun the boy away from himself. The momentum sent Breyon crashing into the opposite wall, and the defiant blue eyes widened in fear again. Great. He managed to frighten a child whom he could break in two with one hand.

“You speak of me as if I were one of the Drago-Kazov Neanderthals,” he growled. “What do you know? I might hate them more than you. Here,” he tossed the gun back to Breyon and flopped back onto the bed.

The boy glared at him incredulously.

“ _You_ might hate them more than _we_ do? Oh, please… The Dragons have occupied our world for centuries, killed millions of people. How often have we tried to get rid of them! But every time…”

“… things just got worse,” he nodded. “Of course. You live in the neighbourhood of their homeworld. It’s easy for them to call in reinforcements.”

His voice was calm, analytical, detached. Considering the military aspects of the problem. The boy glared at him again.

“They killed him. They killed my father. Then they cut him to pieces and fed him to the fish.” With that, the boy whirled around angrily and left.

Explosions. Angry fireworks over and around and inside a fasthold. Adults shouting at children to run for their lives. Gauss rifles going off. Unarmed men struggling with their armed enemies. Women screaming with rage, defeating their children with the devotion of lionesses. One of them, dark and beautiful and determined, finished off two armed men, then turned around to run after her fleeing children, when a shot hit her in the back. She spun around in slow motion and fell, her eyes breaking. She didn’t get up again.

He groaned, and, sitting up on the bed, buried his face in his hands… until he felt a light touch upon his shoulder. He looked up, right into Yvaine’s frightened face. This was the first time she showed fear – and not for herself.

“Please, milord,” she begged. “He didn't mean any harm. He's just a boy, spare him. Please, I’ll do anything you want…”

For some reason, the barely veiled offer appalled him. That she thought he’d demand such… services from her, in exchange for the boy’s life.

“Worry not,” he said, turning away tiredly. “I won't hurt him.” There had been too many children hurt already. Besides, the boy was no threat for him.

“You… you truly mean it?” she asked with a tremulous smile. He snorted.

“Look at me, woman,” he said harshly. “I don't know who I am… or where I am. My ship is wrecked, I have no resources. My survival, it seems, depends on establishing a relationship with the natives of this planet – which, right now, would be you.”

“I’ll help you any way I can,” she promised, realizing this as her best way to survive his visit. “You still don’t remember anything? Not even your own name?”

He shook his head, defeated. “Nothing.”

Yvaine came closer an sat on the edge of the bed. “I saw a book in your ship when I found you… Parsifal’s legend. An ancient Earth legend about the knights of the Round Table – one that has been told among my people many times. One of the knights is said to have been challenged to make a long journey and fight a merciless enemy. He had many adventures, met great challenges, found a wife on his journey, and finally triumphed over his enemy, against all odds.(3)”

“Really?” he couldn’t remember the legend, despite having the book in his possession. “And what did they call him?”

“Gawain,” Yvaine answered. “His name was Gawain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Quoted from “The Ancestor’s Breath” by Keith Hamilton Cobb  
> (2) See above.  
> (3) Yes, I realize that it’s a gross simplification of “Gawain and the Green Knight”, but I wanted it to be a short summary.


	6. Looking for Clues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While watching the episode, I was a bit baffled by Tyr’s obvious familiarity with Midden. How in heck could he know where the caves were and how to get there? No, he definitely needed a guide, as Yvaine rightly pointed out later. Also, I think TPTB chickened out on the end of that scene, you know? I decided to go with it all the way – it will give the story a very different outcome.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER 4 – LOOKING FOR CLUES**

Aboard his small fighter, Guderian was getting more than a little anxious. His current position within his own Pride, such as it was, depended on two elements: on his alliance with the Sabra on Centauris A, due to his marriage with Deborah, and on the fact that Tyr Anasazi accepted the Rite of Protection over the battered and homeless Orca. In fact, if not for Anasazi, Guderian probably wouldn’t have been Pride Alpha anymore, having been bested by the Kodiak in a most embarrassing way.

He still wasn’t happy with how things had turned out, but it was better than having been bested _and_ removed from his position by the way of killing him and his entire family. Besides, losing one of his closest allies could have desolate consequences. His own brother, Dimitri, was still out there somewhere, plotting to kill him and take his place. And his Pride Matriarch, that old hag Olma, was probably in league with Dimitri. Olma had strongly opposed the idea of putting the Pride under Anasazi’s rule. Consequently, Guderian needed the Kodiak alive and victorious, if he wanted to keep his position. At least for the time being.

It took them days to scan the entire surface of the former Kodiak asteroid. _Goruda_ -class fighters were only equipped with minimal sensors – they were not built for surveillance and search missions. As Guderian had feared, they couldn’t find any lifesigns on the barren rock. Nor could he isolate the special feedback created by the Progenitor’s casket.

“It would have been way too easy,” he murmured. ”We’ll have to go and check Midden, it seems.”

“That could end badly,” Sigurd warned. “Midden is encircled by a network of surveillance asteroids. They’ll pick up our signals when we start scanning the planet.”

“I know,” Guderian said glumly. “But we don’t have any other choice. Or do you have a better suggestion?”

Sigurd shook his head. As much as he hated the Kodiak for having made them homeless, Anasazi was family now, in more than one way. They needed to find him. Especially now. There was too much at stake to let him be found by the Drago-Kazov. The Orca just didn’t know _how_ they should get him out… and from where.

The comm system began to blink, and he saw in surprise that it signalled an incoming call.

“Someone wants to talk to us,” he told Guderian. “The call seems a day old or so.”

“Put them onscreen,” the Alpha ordered, “but don’t give them any visual feed. I don’t want them to know who we are… and how many.”

Sigurd nodded and accepted the call. A dark-haired, surprisingly smooth-faced Nietzschean male appeared on the viewscreen.

“I assume you look for the same thing we do,” the stranger said without a preamble. “You might want to know that a ship has crashed on Midden, only two days ago. I’m sending you the approximate coordinates. Good hunt!”

With that, the message ended abruptly, only the coordinates blinking on the screen.

“That could be a trap,” Sigurd said worriedly. “Can we risk following his lead?”

Guderian looked at him tiredly. “Can we risk _not_ following it? It’s the only lead we have.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the next morning, Yvaine escorted him to his crashed ship. It was in a sorry state, to be honest – and it seemed strangely unfamiliar to him as he looked around in the unexpectedly spacious living area for clues.

“This is strange,” Yvaine said softly. “No personal items… not a sign that you – or anyone else – would live on this ship. And yet it looks like it was built as a permanent home.”

“Not _my_ home, most likely,” he replied dryly.

Yvaine gave him a curious look. “Is there nothing that would look familiar?”

He shook his head. “No. And the most ironic part is that I could probably fly this… this wreck, if I had to. But I will be damned if I know what it is called… or where I intended to go.”

“Perhaps an inspection of the other rooms might help,” Yvaine suggested, and they left the living area to take a look at the cargo bay.

Unexpectedly, it was empty, save a long, narrow container standing in a corner, rigged with a harness, so that one could carry it on the back. The container was large enough for a man to hide inside… with some difficulty. He carefully laid his palm on the surface, trying to get a feeling of whatever might be in it, but got nothing. The thing was thoroughly sealed.

“What is it?” Yvaine asked. “Some sort of weapon?”

He shook his head, albeit a bit uncertainly. “I’m not sure. I feel no vibrations, and an energy weapon, even in its dormant state, _would_ emanate a low-level energy field, unless it is completely taken off-line. But this is something important. Of _that_ , I am certain. I just cannot remember why.”

“Maybe if you opened it, it would reveal its purpose,” Yvaine guessed.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But we have to be careful. It has a three-stage lock: keyhole, genetic scanner and voice-code recognition system. One mistake, and if might blow up into our very faces.”

“Well,” Yvaine said, “you should start with the keyhole, I think. Do you happen to have a key to it?”

“I guess it is possible,” he felt around himself, pulled a key card out of his pocket and glanced at it without recognition. “This might be it… or not.”

After a moment of hesitation, he put the card into a slot in the container. There was a strange _snapping_ noise from within, then the artificial male voice of the computer said:

“Initiating unlock sequence. Provide scan.”

He frowned, but after a second chance, he recognized the scanning surface, right above the slot. He pressed a fingertip against it.

”Authorized,” the artificial voice said. “Provide voice code. Warning: incorrect code will trigger self-destruct.”

He froze in mid-movement. He knew he was supposed to know the code word – after all, the computer recognized his DNA, which meant he must have been the one who’d sealed it in the first place. But he also knew that his voice wouldn’t be enough. Only the correct word would open the last seal.

Yvaine stirred next to him, obviously just about to say something. Quicksilver Nietzschean reflexes snapped into action, and he covered her mouth with a big hand, firmly but gently. Her eyes showed that she understood, so he let go of her after a moment.

“Do you wish to continue the unlock sequence?” the computer inquired. “If yes, provide the voice code. If no, remove the physical key.”

No, he didn’t dare to continue. He didn’t know _what_ was in the container, but he knew it was important. He could feel it. And he knew he had to protect it, by any means necessary. The urge was stronger than even his survival instinct.

Suppressing a frustrated sigh, he removed the key.

“Unlock sequence aborted,” the computer announced, and the tiny light of alert mode went dark.

“What will you do with this… whatever it is?” Yvaine asked.

“For the moment, I will leave it here,” he replied, wedging the container into a small niche where it was well-hidden behind the still smoking pieces of trash. “But it will need a better hiding place… somewhere where nobody would look for it. Do you know such a place?”

Yvaine thought about it for a moment.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But it’s a long and tiring way from here… even for one of your people.”

“I am used to hardship,” he replied, and somehow he _knew_ he was telling the truth. “What is that place?”

“There are caves under that mountain,” Yvaine pointed at the huge, wood-covered hillside, some three or four miles away. “Long and narrow, interconnected ones – a dangerous place for someone who doesn’t know his way around them. A true maze; it would be hard to find anything – or anyone – in there.”

“Can you show me the entrance?” he asked. Yvaine shrugged.

“I can… but I don’t have the time to hike in the mountains. I have work to do, or there will be consequences. Unpleasant ones. Even together, it takes time and effort to pull in the nets. Breyon is still young, and I’m just a woman – and not even a particularly strong one.”

“Oh, I would not say that,” he replied. “You are strong in everything that truly counts. But I shall help you afterwards. I shall make up for your lost time. Just show me the way.”

“Yes, I can imagine that _you_ would be able to pull in our nets in no time at all,” Yvaine glanced at his burgeoning muscles with a slight smile. “You are very strong, even for one of your kind.”

“I was forced to work in the mines when I was of Breyon’s age,” he replied absent-mindedly… and froze. Indeed, he could see his younger self, hungry and half-mad with panic and thirst, trying to claw his way out of a collapsed mine shaft with his bare hands…

A small, warm hand, hardened by long years of heavy labour, rested on his biceps, carefully avoiding his forearm spikes.

“You remember?” Yvaine asked. He shook his head.

“It was but a flash. It is gone again. Now, show me those caves!”

At first Yvaine seemed as if she wanted to protest – but then she simply sighed and gave in.

“Follow me then,” she said in defeat.

On Midden, one learned at a very young age _not_ to argue with a Nietzschean. Not even with a weakened Nietzschean who obviously still didn’t have all his wits around him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“We’ve reached the coordinates given to us,” Sigurd Cree reported to Guderian, “but the Drago-Kazov will catch up with us in no time. What do you want me to do now?”

“Scan for metal trash on the surface,” Guderian replied. “If we find Tyr’s ship, we will have a trail on him, soon. And even if he _is_ dead, we might get a chance to recover his… _cargo_ before the Drago-Kazov.”

“Do you truly believe he might still be alive?” Sigurd asked doubtfully.

Guderian shrugged. “He is resilient and resourceful – and has a cunning talent to find allies in the most unlikely places. But we must find the… the _cargo_ , no matter what, and fetch it away safely.”

“And leave him behind?” Sigurd asked. Not that he’d have problems with saving his own hide first and worrying about his brother-in-law afterwards. He was a Nietzschean, after all, that attitude was coded into his very genes. But he knew Freya would tear him to bloody pieces with her bare hands if she learned that he could have saved her husband yet had not.

“He left me very specific orders,” Guderian replied. “First and foremost, we are to track down his ship and exchange the cargo for the fake that we have here, in the back. _Then_ we can look for him, as long as it does not endanger us… _or_ the cargo.”

“He trusts us with the Progenitor’s bones?” Sigurd couldn’t truly believe it.

“Of course not,” Guderian snorted. “He does not _need_ to trust us. The container only reacts to his DNA _and_ his voice code. It would self-destruct if anyone else tried to open it, even with the right key.”

“So, if he dies, the bones are lost, forever?” Sigurd asked.

“Well, they would be inaccessible until Freya’s child is born,” Guderian shrugged. “I am sure Tyr has left some instructions how to open the container, should he not survive this particular stunt. But we will have the time to worry about _that_ later. Let us find the ship first.”

“Are we close enough to pick up the signal of the tracking device?”

“Unless it was destroyed by the crash, yes, we are,” Guderian adjusted the scanner. “If not, we will simply examine every heap of metal that seems to have the right mass. There cannot be so many crashed ships in that area.”

“I hope you are right,” Sigurd murmured. “Otherwise we can kiss any future Orca Pride still might have goodbye.”

“You worry too much,” Guderian adjusted the scanner again and was rewarded with a beeping sound. “Here is the signal. Send the others a coded message. We are going down.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Having showed her Nietzschean… _guest_ the entrance to the mines, Yvaine hurried back to the house. She had a bad feeling about having left Breyon behind alone, and she’d learned long ago to trust her instincts. They’d saved her life many times. She could feel the Nietzschean, whom she’d named Gawain for the lack of a proper name, follow her almost noiselessly, but she couldn’t pay him any attention right now. She needed to get home, _now_!

Barely had she reached the house, she could hear the voice of Breyon, high-pitched with fear and indignation. They boy was arguing with someone, and now she could hear the other voice, too, and her hart sank with resignation.

 _Hanno and his goons again_ , she thought bitterly. Well, that was to be expected. They’d left her alone long enough as it was.

“Trouble?” the Nietzschean asked in a low growl.

“Nothing I couldn’t deal with,” she replied sharply. “Wait here!”

“I can help,” he offered, clearly surprised that the idea hadn’t occurred to her.

“I don’t think so,” she answered. “Your _help_ would only get me killed. Nietzscheans aren't very popular around here… and since they’re beyond our reach, it’s the collaborators who get punished.”

When she put it that way, it made excellent sense. He still followed her into the house… only from a certain distance. He didn’t want to cause her any more trouble, but he was fairly sure that his intervention would be needed, sooner or later.

Within the house, they found three well-fed men whom he didn’t know but Yvaine clearly did. They surrounded Breyon threateningly. One of them, a sharp-featured thug with dirty blond hair that seemed to be the chief honcho among them, had the boy pinned to the wall.

“What do you mean that's all there is?” the man demanded.

To his credit, the boy didn’t seem frightened; more angry and defiant. Either he was brave (and foolish) by nature, or he’d already learned not to show his fear to these bullies.

“I told you, that's all we can spare,” he spat.

The dirty blond obviously didn’t believe him. “You're holding out on me.”

“And what if I do?” Breyon returned. “ _We_ are the ones who labour from sunrise to sunset. _You_ never move a finger to do any honest work.”

Before the thug could have answered, Yvaine rushed into the house and glared at him without fear. “Let go of my son, Hanno!”

The thug whose name was apparently Hanno turned around and gave her an unpleasant smile. “Yvaine. Lovely, as always.”

“Save it,” she replied curtly. “Just get out of my home!”

“Awww... such a cold welcome,” the chief honcho all but purred. “And after all we do for you. I think you'd be more grateful.”

“Grateful? For what?” she asked angrily. “For blockading the roads? Stealing our harvests? Ambushing our convoys on the way to market? All you’ve ever done was causing us even more harm. As if the Dragons weren’t enough!”

“We’re patriots,” the thug said with a self-satisfactory grin. “We are fighting to free Midden from the Dragons. By cutting their supply lines wherever we can.”

“Patriots,” Yvaine snorted in disgust. “My husband was a patriot… and paid the price. You're nothing but a thief.”

“A thief is someone who takes what they want,” the thug said with a nasty smile. “Is that what I am?”

With lightning speed, he grabbed Yvaine and pushed bar backwards onto a nearby table, holding a knife to her neck. Then he licked her cheek and ran the knife across the laces of her shirt, as if threatening to cut them.

“Be careful,” he warned. “I might live up to your expectations.”

“Or you might not live at all,” the nameless Nietzschean chose this moment to enter the room, hand resting on the gun he had in a holster around his lean waist. She never thought she’d be glad to see a Nietzschean, ever, but strangely, the sight of him, standing in the doorframe, big, mean and backlit, somehow calmed her. She could think more clearly again.

“Ha!” Hanno snapped. “I wouldn't interfere if I were you.”

With a twist, he pulled Yvaine in front of him, knife to her throat, while one of his men grabbed the boy.

“Drop your weapons and get face-down on the floor, or they both die!” Hanno threatened.

The Nietzschean shook his head in bewildered amusement. Were these _kludges_ truly such idiots? Did they believe – just because they were big and beefy enough to frighten their own people, assuming those were half their size, and had knives – that the three of them would be enough to take it up with a trained Nietzschean warrior? The Nietzschean had sudden memory flashes of himself, in a hundred fights, victorious, working out in training rooms, killing armed opponents of his own kind… these idiots did not have a clue who he was and what he was capable of.

He suppressed a smile and knelt down, slowly holding out his weapons as the third thug moved closer to tie him up.

“You are making a mistake,” he warned, hoping that the idiots would back off. He didn’t want to spill blood – _human_ blood – in Yvaine’s home.

“I don't make mistakes,” the chief honcho replied haughtily. “Tie him up!”

No such luck, apparently. Now he would have to kill them.

“Hanno, don't,” Yvaine warned, too. The thug gave her a bewildered look.

“Why are you protecting this... this _Über_?”

“She is not protecting _me_ ,” the Nietzschean said with a wolfish grin. “She is protecting _you_.” His bone blades snapped out and he stabbed the thug tying him up, killing him instantly. 

Using the moment of surprise to her advantage, Yvaine slammed her elbow into the chief honcho’s face who fell back, howling in pain. With a move too swift for the human eye to follow, the Nietzschean snapped the neck of the thug threatening the boy and let the dead body drop like a wet rag. Then he threw the one named Hanno down onto the table holding a knife to the man’s throat.

Yet Yvaine grabbed his arm, hanging onto it with her full weight – which was not much. “That’s enough!”

The Nietzschean showed his big, even teeth in a mirthless grin. “It is enough when _I say_ it is,” he growled. To his surprise, she yanked him away from his prey with surprising strength.

“You don't have to live here,” she reminded him. “I do! And if you kill him, too, I'm as good as dead. Do you think there were only the three of them?”

“Lady's got a point,” Hanno said smugly. 

After a moment of consideration, the Nietzschean let him up. He clambered to his feet and went to check on his men, finding them quite dead. That angered him very much – they had been useful – but at the moment, he couldn’t do anything about it. First, he had to get them out of here and gather the others.

“Help me with them!” he demanded. But the nameless Nietzschean just shrugged.

“Carry out your own trash,” and with that, he deliberately turned his back on Hanno. In Nietzschean terms, it was the greatest possible insult: declaring someone so inferior that one would be allowed to get in a warrior’s back. The human scum probably didn’t even realize that.

“Did you have to kill them?” Yvaine demanded when Hanno had finally left, Breyon reluctantly helping him to drag the dead bodies out of the house.

“It was not my intention to do so within your house,” he replied truthfully. “But they left me no other choice. They _would_ have killed me, given the opportunity; and then you and the boy, perhaps. I should have killed their leader, too. One must never let an enemy alive to come back and finish what they have begun.”

“In this particular case I’m afraid that you might be right,” Yvaine replied bitterly. “But it cannot be helped anymore. What are you planning next?”

“First I will help pulling your nets to the shore,” he answered. “Then I shall return to my ship. The answer is there somewhere, in the database. I must find it to find myself again.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
On board of the _Andromeda Ascendant_ , Beka Valentine looked at the red bug who was handling the sensors impatiently. “Anything?”

Glittering Starlight wiggled her antennae apologetically. “Not yet.”

“Damn that Nietzschean,” Beka swore. “If he broke my ship for good, I’ll break his arm as soon as I get my hands on him.”

Freya, who’d come to the command deck to see if they had found Tyr’s trail, ordered back the highly offended Arjuna with an imperial gesture.

“I understand that you are worried about your ship, Captain Valentine,” she said in a carefully measured tone; there was no reason to make the _kludge_ woman mad… or suspicious. “I, however, am worried about my husband. Is there truly no way to track the _Maru_?”

She knew, of course, that Tyr had intended to change ships on Haukin Tau Drift, but finding the _Maru_ , at the very least, would have been a step in the right direction. There might be messages or clues left by Tyr or by Sigurd – if one knew where to look.

“Well,” Beka answered thoughtfully, “I did warn Tyr before he left that the _Maru_ had a bad plasma regulator. If he was planning on doing any tricky maneuvering, he would have had to fix it.”

“Or get it fixed,” Harper added. “Hey, what about checking all local drifts – see if he tried to get a replacement?”

“Yeah,” Beka agreed. “It's a start, anyway.”

Harper and the Ruby Than went to work and Freya hesitated briefly, considering pointing them into the right direction. Guderian and Sigurd had lost Tyr over Enga’s Redoubt and they didn’t have the equipment on their small ships to scan an entire planet quickly enough. The _Andromeda Ascendant_ had the right sort of equipment, but her appearance over the Dragan homeworld might cause more harm than it would be help.

Besides, the arrival of the _Andromeda Ascendant_ might not leave Tyr enough time to bring his precious cargo – the cargo he’d put his life at risk for – to safety. Te bones won’t be safe anywhere else but in the genetically encoded storage chamber of the _Phoenix Rising_. Tyr would never forgive her if she’d endangered this risky mission in any way.

So, for the time being, Freya decided to remain quiet.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Yvaine had been reluctant to accompany the Nietzschean back to his damaged ship – she was afraid what Hanno might do to her home and Breyon in her absence – but in the end, she dared not to refuse. Hanno _might_ come back, sooner or later. The Nietzschean was there _now_ ; and of the two perils, he was definitely the worse.

So they walked all the way back to the crash site, and upon entering the ship, the Nietzschean managed to access the database… not that it would do him any good.

“Something scrambled the main database,” he said with a frown. “Most of the records are badly garbled.”

“Is there anything at all you can save of them?” Yvaine asked.

“Perhaps,” he replied. “I shall try running a diagnostic programme; we will see what it can bring.”

He entered a few coded instructions and part of the board systems came online. It seemed that the crash hadn’t done any permanent damage to the key systems, so he might be able to repair his ship and leave, eventually; assuming he would figure out what had caused the crash in the first place.

He frowned, entered a few more codes, and unexpectedly, a picture of him came up on the screen, with a lot of data. Yvaine peered over his shoulder to read them.

“Well, at least you know your name,” she commented. “Barabas Jericho, owner and operator of the _Klondike Trail_.”

“Faked,” the Nietzschean said promptly. She looked at him in surprise.

“You sure? It looks genuine enough to me. Perhaps you just can’t remember.”

He shook his head determinedly, his long braids swinging over his shoulder like the many arms of some mythical beast. “I may not know my real name, but I know it is not Barabas. Pilot's license, registry, course logs – all forgeries.”

“They all seem genuine, though,” Yvaine repeated.

“They were made by a skilled professional, obviously,” he replied, “but they are still fakes; they cannot help us find out the truth. On the bright side, however, I figured out what had happened to my memory.” He entered another couple of codes and pulled up a schematic with a particular area highlighted. “Look at this.”

Yvaine studied the schematic with a frown of her own. It didn’t say her much, to be honest. “Is that some kind of machine?”

“That is an attack nanobot; a microscopic machine, designed to scramble electrical systems, both mechanical and biological,” the Nietzschean explained. “The ship was infested with them, and so was I.”

The idea of one’s body being swarmed by tiny robots made her shiver. “They were in your blood? You're lucky they didn't kill you.”

He shrugged off her concerns casually. “I'm a Nietzschean. I have a bio-engineered immune system – defensive nanobots of my own. They stopped the attack and should repair the damage. Eventually.”

“And then what?” she asked, a little sharper than originally intended. His customary Nietzschean arrogance was getting under her skin.

He shrugged again. “And then I go back to my life, whatever that is.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Coordinates confirmed and locked,” Sigurd Cree reported to Guderian aboard of their fighter. “I have got a positive identification on the tracking device: that is the _Klondike Trail_ down there all right.” 

“Any word from Hafiz, Kiyama or the others?” Guderian asked. If the Dragans managed to capture the Mandau mercenaries, that would lead them to _him_ … and then he might not have any other choice than to abandon Tyr, in order to save his own life and those of his men.

“None,” Sigurd replied, “But I have managed to hack into the internal comm network of the Home Guard of Enga’s Redoubt… it seems the idiots have failed to capture our… _associates_.”

“What a complete waste of genetic resources,” Guderian commented, grinning like a shark. “Lucky for us, though.”

“They will still be pissed,” Sigurd warned. “Tyr will have to make reparations. Mandau Pride does not like to be involved in unprofitable, high-risk business.”

“That is Tyr’s business, not ours,” Guderian replied with a shrug. “I imagine he will do his best to pacify Mandau Pride. After all, his Völsung wives live on the same rock.”

“If they are not on his new ship,” Sigurd said.

Guderian shook his head. “Only Finnabair is, because her programming skills are needed. The others are still on Haukin Vora, with the rest of what is still there of their pathetic Pride.”

“I wonder what motivated Tyr to take wives from their rows,” Sigurd commented. “Völsung Pride is practically extinct. The handful that survived the Castalian genocide are either infertile or barely Beta material. Certainly not worth wasting genes as superior as Tyr’s on them.”

“They might be inferior,” Guderian allowed, “but they are still the last ones to carry at least _some_ of the Kodiak heritage. With nineteen genetic markers out of twenty-two Tyr is still the closes thing to the Progenitor reborn that our people have had for centuries. Even with inferior wives, he still can sire Alpha children… and that with a strong Kodiak stamp. He has to start rebuilding his Pride _somewhere_.”

“Well, there will be no rebuilding whatsoever if we cannot extract him from this backwater planet,” Sigurd replied. “Where do you intend to land? We can hardly use the landing field of the Dargans.”

“No,” Guderian agreed, “that would be a mistake. Scan for a large enough area as close to the ship as possible. It does not have to be _very_ large; you are an excellent pilot.”

“Thanks,” Sigurd grinned. “What about waiting for nightfall, though? Darkness will not hide us from the Dragan scanners but at least we can avoid being spotted – and reported – by the local _kludges_.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Guderian said. “I shall order the others, to wait outside the range of the planetary surveillance system – it’s fairly primitive, so it will be no hardship. We will only call them in if necessary. A low profile will be of our advantage.”

He sent the coded message to the other ships and got the acknowledgement. Then they established geosynchronous orbit above the crash site… and waited.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They had taken a break on their way back from the crash site and were now sitting at the river bank, just two people resting before going from one business to another. It was a beautiful afternoon, as of in some sort of fairy tale where no Dragans and no human bandits existed. It felt as if they had stepped out of time for a while.

Yvaine knew she should probably hurry back to her home, to her work, to the boy she had accepted responsibility for and who now had no-one else but her… yet he found it hard to break this rare moment of peace. The fact that she was sharing this perfect moment with a _Nietzschean_ , of all people, only made everything even more surreal.

After a seemingly endless moment of companionable silence the Nietzschean stirred on her side and let the gaze of his amber eyes sweep across the idyllic riverside.

“How did you end up here, in a place like this?” he asked. There was no judgement in his voice, just simple curiosity... which was strange enough in itself. Nietzscheans didn’t have any interest for the fate of their slaves, as a rule. “You certainly don't look like a fishmonger.”

She shrugged. “It's honest work. A lot better than some of the other things I've had to do.”

“Such as?” he asked. Yvaine shrugged again.

“Use your imagination. Imagine the worst and I’ve probably done it,” at his shocked expression, she smiled bitterly. “What did you expect? The Dragons have ruled here for centuries. We knew we couldn’t beat them, but people get a little crazy sometimes… when things become too much to bear.”

“So you rose against them,” he said.

Yvaine nodded. “It happened in my home city, Nisalla, when I was ten. We tried to fight…”

“… and your people lost,” he finished for her. She laughed bitterly.

“Worse. We actually _won_. We wiped out the local garrison.”

“I imagine that did not go without repercussions,” he said slowly.

“Of course not,” she replied dryly. “The next day, they dropped an atomic warhead on the city, rendering part of the northern continent inhabitable. I was the only member of my family who made it out… but the radiation made me infertile. I’ll never have children of my own.”

 _That_ he could understand. In the eyes of a Nietzschean infertility, especially if one hadn’t been born that way, was worse than death. The other similarities between their fates surprised him, though. In a flash of memory, he saw himself, lying with a gold-haired woman of his own people, heard his own voice telling her, _I saw my mother... she was slow_ – as of recalling a painful childhood memory.

“My parents,” he murmured. “Something happened to them, something – something similar. And I think the Drago-Kazov...” he shook his head and looked away, growling in frustration. “I can't remember…”

Yvaine sighed. “I wish _I could_ say that,” she said as long-suppressed memories broke to the surface with painful clarity again. “The next few years were rough; with a great part of the northern continent no longer habitable because of the residual radiation, the survivors migrated to the south as well as they could. It took me six years to reach Hegel’s Port. I had to accept any kind of work to survive, and sometimes it was… well, unpleasant. But I made it there somehow, and then I met Laurent, Breyon's father,” she smiled slightly and her sharp features softened with the fond memory.

“This Laurent… what was he like?” the Nietzschean asked quietly.

“It was easy to love him,” she replied. “He was kind, gentle, quiet but intense. He asked me to come back with him, since he’d lost his wife a short time earlier.”

“And you followed him,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway.

“Gladly I did,” she said. “He was quite a few years older than I… I was barely more than a child. To me, this was paradise, living with Laurent, helping him raise Breyon… I had a family again, a real family; even though I was barren, myself.”

“But it did not last, did it?” the Nietzschean asked, remembering Breyon’s bitter remarks.

Yvaine shook her head. “No; eventually, the madness came here, too. The Dragons increased the tribute levels, so the local fishermen stopped paying in protest.”

“That did not go well, I assume,” the Nietzschean said.

“No,” she replied tonelessly. “The Dragons killed one-tenth of the male population of the province – _including_ Laurent.”

This stupid waste of resources angered him. Those fishermen should have been punished, not killed, so that they would keep serving their masters, instead of becoming martyrs. Strangely, the tears running down her cheeks angered him, too. She might be a _kludge_ and a mudfoot, but she also was a good, honest, hard-working woman. She deserved better.

He reached out tentatively to wipe away her tears, and to his surprise, she didn’t flinch from his touch. So he leaned in to kiss her. She allowed it, her pliant mouth opening invitingly under his, her small but strong hands kneading his biceps. He felt the familiar heat pooling in his belly but held back his own aggressive nature with some effort. She was so slender, so fragile compared with him, he could have easily damaged her without intention, by being merely careless.

He broke the kiss and looked down into her clouded eyes. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked. “I shall not force you.”

“I’m sure,” she replied, a little breathlessly. “I need this. It’s been too long, and you’re… different. Who knows when we might have an undisturbed moment like this again.”

That was certainly true, and so he laid her onto the sun-warmed grass and parted her thighs with a firm hand to prepare her for the taking. The necessity of being considerate towards human frailty was strangely endearing; it brought a sweetness into the act that the common Nietzschean couplings lacked. She arched towards him in pleasure when he entered her, it must have been very long for her indeed, her plain face glowing with passion, her head trashing on the grass. It made him feel eminently superior, having her writhing under him in abandon, begging for his touch. He sped up his rhythm, claiming her thoroughly, but still held back, mindful of her fragile constitution.

Yvaine let the waves of pleasure watch over her body and soul, over her very being. It wasn’t primarily the physical pleasure that made her forget anything, although the nameless Nietzschean was as good at sex as his race tended to be at almost everything. Letting herself fall and being caught by his strength was what she found most satisfying. She could forget her concerns for a short while, could stop being the strong, reasonable and brave one, the support for everyone who needed her. In his massive arms, she could afford to feel tiny and fragile – even vulnerable.

She never thought she’d ever lie with a Nietzschean again, not voluntarily, at least. But for this one time, it was perfect.

Afterwards, they just lay there in the grass, his huge arms uncharacteristically gentle around her, and for the first time since Laurent’s death, she felt _safe_. She knew it was an illusion; that he would be gone, soon – if not killed by his fellow _Übers_ for some reason she couldn’t even begin to fathom – leaving her behind to fend for herself alone. But she was determined to savour this illusionary moment for as long as it lasted.

As it could be expected, it didn’t last long. Soon, the pace of the warm afternoon was interrupted by a loud noise, and the two of them turned to see a light and smoke trail that indicated a ship landing in the distance.

“That is a ship,” the Nietzschean stated the obvious. Yvaine nodded, her heart suddenly heavy and hopeless again.

“Headed for the landing field outside Hegel's Port,” she said grimly. “Which means – the Dragons are coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know it’s been more than six **years** since the last update. I’m sorry. Writer’s blocks can be nasty – and long-lasting – things sometimes. I do hope, though, that this story would eventually move on.


End file.
